


tell me where it hurts

by cakecakecake



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Crush, Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Cardiophilia, Choking, Dry Humping, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Golden Deer, Hand-wavy Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Light Bondage, Light Masochism, Making Out, Massage, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Painplay, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Praise Kink, Self-Discovery, Sensuality, Situational Humiliation, Vanilla Kink, injury care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2020-11-27 08:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: it seemed like only yesterday, the only things growing in the greenhouse were violets.





	1. a little rough is nice

**Author's Note:**

> after telling myself i would never do another multi-chapter ship thing again, here i am doing a multi-chapter ship thing again. fire emblem strikes me again, go figure
> 
> i debated throwing this into my one-shot collection but the more i drafted, the more i realized how very badly i wanted to follow an asheleth relationship on my favorite route of the three. i love verdant wind so much and i wanted to explore ashe's history with house rowe/angst and lust with byleth. 
> 
> the tags are tame for now but i'll be adding more along with future chapters. this is probably going to be much more porn than actual story and i am so sorry. i'm just really smitten with ashe. xo

The tea’s getting cold. 

Byleth traces a finger around the rim of her porcelain cup, staring across the courtyard at nothing in particular. The sun dial reads half past noon -- Claude was supposed to have met her here at least an hour ago. She’d eaten breakfast without him, shared a meager toast-and-eggs with Ignatz and Marianne instead, both of whom crooned over her the entire time. She didn’t look well, she knew that, and hadn’t for the long march back to the monastery from Ailell. She insisted it had just been anxiety regarding the close call in the Valley -- which wasn’t completely untrue. It had been a bit of an ugly fight, with Gwendal’s dangerous measure of strength. More than a few of their soldiers had barely escaped his hand, not to mention the sweltering, agitating heat they all had to endure for the exhausting journey home. It was a victory, and while it hadn’t come too costly, it was a struggle. No wonder she looked tired.

But her biggest worry had been Ashe, the only one of her former students who hadn’t shown up to the reunion. 

For him to be laying in wait to ambush her forces shouldn’t have come as much of a shock. House Rowe bore the last remnants of Gaspard, of course he wanted to cling to whatever he could of the late Lord Lonato. If it were only about saving his family, he wouldn’t have bothered with Gwendal. He would have come back with the others that morning of the Ethereal Moon -- but it never was just about protecting his siblings. Honor had very nearly been his downfall, but Byleth wasn’t going to let it be -- and given how quickly he succumbed to her persuasion, she thinks he's already started to realize it’s not all about justice after all. 

Byleth sighs, resting her chin in her hands. Red cardinals and blue-jays twitter and tweet in cheerful song around her -- the first of the migration has come in for spring. The air is still chilly, but there are already so many birds. They shake the melted snow off naked birch branches and flutter past, gusts of air brushing the hair across her cheek. She stares down into the cinnamon cluster congealing at the bottom of her cup. She hasn’t seen Ashe since he was hoisted onto Dorte, unconscious and struggling to breathe. He should be here, watching the birds with her, not knocked out in the infirmary -- she’s starting to think she’d been more than unnecessarily cruel when Claude’s voice rings from across the garden.

“Afternoon, Teach!”

Bright-eyed and dressed down in his lounge clothes, the Lord waves at her, grinning widely. He stretches his arms, heaving a big sigh as he draws up a chair. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he laughs, hollow and careless and not sorry at all. Byleth half-smiles affectionately.

“Don’t worry about it.” She pours out a cup for him quickly, the contents no longer steaming. “Sorry, it might be a little cold. Did Manuela keep you?” 

“That’s alright,” he says. “And no, ha, she must be a little hungover. She wasn’t in there this morning -- It was Ashe who talked my ear off.”

Byleth’s eyes snap up to him expectantly -- she takes a breath. “How is he?”

“He’s fine, no thanks to you,” Claude teases her, of course, winking before lifting the cup to his mouth. He muses between sips, “That was one hell of a blow you landed on him, Teach. Dark magic is no joke.”

She furrows her brow, staring down at her half-eaten croissant and Claude chortles sheepishly, waving his hands.

“Aw, don’t make that face, I’m just messing with you -- you _did_ do a number on him, but he’ll recover just fine. Should be out of the infirmary by the end of the week.”

Byleth rolls her eyes, covering her mouth to shield the crack of her smile -- he notices anyway, lifting his brow. 

“You certainly look pleased. Something you wanna share with the class?”

She shakes her head, taking a bite of the flaky pastry and pointedly averting his eyes. “I persuaded an old friend who happens to be an archer of unparalleled skill to our side, why wouldn’t I be pleased.”

Claude purrs, leaning forward. “A friend, huh?” 

Byleth clears her throat. “Is he not a friend?”

“Sure he is, to the rest of us. To you, however, I wonder.”

“Wonder what.”

He stretches, laughing through a satisfied groan as he leans back in his seat. “Oh, come on Teach, we’re all grown-ups here, you don’t have to be coy.”

“I really don’t know what you mean,” she insists uselessly, picking at her food. 

“I don’t know how you couldn’t, Hilda and Flayn were gabbing about it pretty loudly on the march back -- ”

“What?” she asks again, a little less patient this time as she stirs her drink.

“Your little crush on Ashe, of course,” he quips, wagging a finger at her. Byleth drops her tea spoon with a clatter. “Can’t say I blame you -- kid grew up very well. If I’d seen him before you knocked him flat with Miasma, I might have gotten on my knees to recruit him myself.” 

She forces a small laugh, serving zero conviction. “Claude, don’t be ridiculous.”

“What! I’m not trying to chide you, I’m impressed! I’d never had a conversation with him that went deeper than discussing the flavor notes in Angelica blend before today, and I’ve gotta say, I regret not speaking to him more during our school days. We’ve got hearts of gold among the Deer, but he’s one of very few who wears his proudly on his sleeve.”

“He does, indeed,” she says fondly, avoiding his invasive stare. “But I still don’t know where you’re getting this ‘crush’ idea from.”

“You’re joking, right?” He almost sounds exasperated. “Teach, you’ve never played favorites with us -- something we all appreciate, since we all adore you -- but you’ve had a particularly soft spot for him since our academy days -- "

“I wanted to make sure he knew he was welcome in our class, that’s all.”

He snorts. “Yeah, by spoiling him.”

“I did not,” she retorts, and he laughs back at her.

“Didn’t you? Cooking with him every week, buying all those fantasy novels for him -- I seem to recall a period of time where the only plants growing in the greenhouse were violets -- ” 

She opens her mouth to combat him, with what, she hadn’t yet decided -- she has no ammunition for a solid argument against facts, so it’s probably better that Hilda loudly interrupts them, chirping bright as the robins flitting around the gazebo. 

“Good morning Professor and Claude! Oh -- well, I guess it’s afternoon, now.”

“Morning Hilda!”

Byleth looks her over, noting her hair tied back and the sweat spots on her lounge wear. “You seem tired, Hilda. What have you been up to?”

“Ugh, Manuela won’t come out of her room, so I got stuck tending to the infirmary. All. Morning,” she complains, examining her manicured nails. “I haven’t even had time to eat yet, and there’s still some patients who need their medicine…”

“Hilda, you know that’s not gonna work on me -- "

“I’ll go,” Byleth stands up in an instant, pushing her chair back to move from the table. 

“Professor? Oh that’s so kind of you to offer to help! I’m sure someone like you won’t have too much trou -- " But she’s gone, walking briskly through the courtyard, moving into a jog when she believes the two aren’t looking at her anymore. Hilda huffs, brows high enough to disappear into her bangs. “Well, that was fast.”

“I told you you wouldn’t have to try too hard,” Claude smirks at her, gesturing for her to take the professor’s empty seat. Hilda slides in, helping herself to the untouched baked treats left behind. 

“She’s in deep, isn’t she?” she asks, mouth full of a bite of biscuit. 

“Yep.”

* * *

The door to the infirmary is shut, but unlocked. With a soft creak, it opens, and Byleth enters, scanning the room.

It’s dark inside. To keep the sunlight from disturbing the patients, she thinks. As Hilda said, Manuela is nowhere to be seen, but the chamber looks deserted altogether -- the beds lined up against the east wall are all empty. But to her left, there’s a candle burning at the table-side of one unmade bed in the far corner -- the one Ashe must be resting upon.

Her stomach sinks. He must have fallen back asleep after Claude left, but he hardly looks restful. His chest rises and falls with a quickness, like breathing is a difficulty. She edges closer to him, watching as tiny beads of sweat drip from his brow -- he’s so pale. There’s a sickly, greenish tint to his skin that makes his freckles almost disappear. 

Byleth swallows, settling onto the unoccupied space next to him, hoping the shift of her weight doesn’t cause him to stir. His lips are parted and open -- despite the gaunt of his illness, his mouth is still pink. Hands shaking, she boldly pushes the hair from his forehead, a tightness coiling in her chest as she feels how soft his stormy gray tresses are. She smiles tenderly, watching as his eyelashes flutter. He breathes out a quiet moan and she flinches her hand away like someone smacked it. 

“Is that...you, Professor…?” he strains, blinking slowly, eyes adjusting. 

“Ashe,” she breathes out, and he smiles upon hearing her say his name. Perhaps it’s a trick of the candlelight, but she thinks she can see the color return to his face. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than before,” he tells her, shifting under the blankets. He tries to sit up, but his breath hitches -- he winces in pain and Byleth moves to steady him, hands on his shoulders. She lifts her brows, feeling the tightness of his biceps briefly -- he's so. Broad, now. His arms are so. Big. She clears her throat.

“Easy, don’t move so much."

“It’s alright, I’m alright.” He doesn’t look alright. His forehead is still gleaming with sweat, but his skin feels clammy and feverish. He wriggles around, managing to prop himself up on his elbow.

“Ashe, I am so sorry.”

“S-Sorry?” he repeats her, tilting his head. “Whatever for? You’re the reason I’m here right now.” 

She snorts, rolling her eyes ironically. “Yeah, exactly.”

He laughs heartily, cheeks turning slightly pink. (His face is so -- angular, now.) “You’re so funny, Professor.”

She looks at him fondly. She doesn’t think it reaches her eyes, but with Ashe, it doesn’t need to. He recognizes it anyway. He was always just Like That, he just always _knew_. Maybe it was the Big Brother Instinct or his heart of gold, but either way. He reaches for her hand, clutching it where it still rests on his shoulder. 

“You were just doing your duty, as I was doing mine. It’s alright.”

And there he goes with the Duty Thing. She must still look perturbed, because he tries to laugh, puts on a smile for her. She watches the way his lip curls over white-white teeth. His eyes are shining despite the sickness, unfailingly bright. Maybe it's good that some things haven't changed.

“Don’t worry about me, Professor -- I know it looks bad, but I’ve had worse. Just another day or two of treatment, and I’ll be good as new.”

“What’s the treatment?” she asks him, eagerness in her voice. If she can help, make it better somehow, she wants to. He seems receptive, as he gestures to the shelves.

“It’s the little blue jar, over there.”

Byleth gets up, spotting what he’d pointed to. She takes it, turning it over in her hands before twisting the lid off. It has a minty aroma, intense, like it could clear her sinuses if she breathed in enough of it. 

“An ointment?” she asks. “Shouldn’t you be treated with white magic to counter…”

“Normally, yes, but sometimes dark magic has physical effects,” he says factually, his breathing still strained, “so you need medicinal treatment instead.”

“Did Manuela teach you that?” she smirks.

Ashe shakes his head, wetting his mouth before smiling, almost shyly. “You did, Professor.” 

Byleth locks eyes with him, holding onto her breath along with his gaze. There’s still a tinge of pink in his face -- she feels her own cheeks start to burn. He's _very_ cute.

Of course, he's always been cute, but puppy-dog cute. The innocent, sweet sort. Gangly and waif-like, small. Delicate in ways that some of the girls weren't. He would bruise easily and his hands would shake when he stood idle for too long on the battlefield. He'd always had a softness to him that made her desperately want to protect him. He was cute like a pet, not _this_ cute, whatever _this_ cute is, with his sharp jawline and narrowed eyes. And muscles. She shakes her head, swinging her focus back. Right -- she was trying to help.

She moves back to the bed, settling next to him, watching his throat bob with a hard swallow as she swipes a finger in the jar. 

“Um,” he pipes up, struggling to sit up. “I can do it myself, if -- "

“Shh,” she cuts him off. “Just lay down. Tell me where it hurts.” 

Eyes cast aside, Ashe submits quite quickly. He rests back against the mattress, stammering. “U-Um, it’s…” 

He quivers, pushing the sheets off to settle around his hips. The expanse of his torso is bare to her. Byleth’s eyes follow the movement of the blankets, fixated on the reveal of the murky green and black-violet splotches across his chest, trailing all the way down along his stomach, far enough that she can’t see where they end. The colors shift in the flickering light of the candle, making it seem as though the blemishes and blots are moving. Her lips tremble. Wounds such as these never become easier to look at.

“Ashe,” she starts to apologize, but he shakes his head, insistent.

“It’s alright, it looks much worse than it feels.”

She rubs the ointment between her fingers. Her hand hovers barely an inch over his abs, hesitating. “Do I just…”

“Yeah, just a few drops, and rub it in,” he tells her, shakily. He watches her hands, watches as she tentatively flattens her palm against his stomach. He flinches, only slightly -- the warmth of her hands must be jarring. Ashe shivers. Eyes shut, he inhales sharply through his nostrils, breathing out through his mouth. Byleth frowns sympathetically -- the feeling must be something akin to getting a bad bruise pushed in. She chews the inner of her cheek, guilt tugging at her gut. A blow of Miasma will do much less damage than a slash from a sword in the long run, but it doesn’t make it any easier to see him in such a state. 

Slowly, with careful ministrations, Byleth massages the ointment into the affected areas, watching his face for signs of discomfort. Using both hands, she rubs below his ribs with caution, afraid of hurting him by accident. He’s clammy and sweaty, and the wounds are awful to look at, but nothing feels abnormal -- quite the contrary, he feels...nice to touch. She swallows, watching his brows knit together the harsher she rubs him. His muscles flex, twitching as he starts to whimper. 

"Pr...Professor..."

“Am I being too rough?” she asks gently, only mildly concerned with the prospect of causing him more pain and _wildly_ concerned with the way her spine tingles with every noise he makes. He looks at her with dark, droopy eyes, his voice dropping lower than she’s ever heard as he tells her --

“A little rough is nice.” 

There’s a wheel far in the back of Byleth’s head that she doesn’t realize has been turning all this time -- until this very moment, when it comes to a sudden, startling halt. What this wheel is supposed to be, exactly, she has no idea. But it seems to coincide with the heat that’s started to flare between her thighs. His words melt through her ears, hot and warm like he’d whispered against her cheek rather than from two feet away. There’s a spark, some twinkle of rougery in his half-lidded eyes, and Byleth swallows a knot the size of a rock as her hands move lower, lower.

Ashe’s hips jerk. Byleth pushes into his muscles, kneading and knuckling the dangerously low part of his abdomen where the dip of his hip bones are in sight. She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, pressing into him, the cool vapor of the salve making his every inhale a bit sharper than the last. Ashe arches his back, jaw falling slack as his eyes roll back and Byleth shudders, a soreness nagging at her thighs and between them, a throbbing ache --

“Ahh, a-aah,” he moans, his broad chest heaving, breathing labored -- Byleth creases her brow, leaning in closer, watching intently as his face and neck quickly go red. 

“Am I hurting you?” she asks even though clearly, she isn't, or maybe she is and he _likes_ it. While massaging a dark wound like this wouldn't be entirely _un_pleasant, it's not exactly going to be titillating -- nobody really enjoys this sort of thing, unless. Does he? Byleth's hands roam up over his pecs, trace his sternum. She can feel his heartbeat drumming under his ribs. Does he like the pain? 

"Yes," he murmurs, and the loud, swinging creak of the opening door jolts her from her imagination.

Manuela stomps inside, swathed in her furs and bemoaning her splitting headache and thankfully distracted enough not to notice Byleth launch herself off of Ashe's bed as he scrambles to cover himself up. She clutches her neckerchief -- she feels stupid and juvenile, like a schoolkid caught after hours in the restricted section and Ashe looks considerably worse, but Manuela's tangled in whatever disaster from the night before. Byleth quickly explains she'd just come to visit, lets her know Ashe has already taken his ointment, and without a goodbye she practically sprints from the infirmary before another opportunity to embarrass herself further arises. She sinks against the wall outside, ashamed and frustrated and stupidly aroused.


	2. experimentation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: wouldn't it be hot if ashe had a pain kink  
me:  
me:  
me: oh dear what have i done
> 
> anyway nobody can tell me ashe doesn't have a thing for getting hurt/being talked down to -- his reactions to felix berating him were inspirational, to say the least. that's all well and good as long as he's spoiled afterward. 
> 
> we have a bit of a history lesson here before we move forward. thank you for your enthusiasm on the first chapter and i look forward to sharing more porn as always. xo

Ashe is seventeen years old when he first makes the discovery.

It’s summer, the early phase of the Verdant Moon, and Ashe has just transferred into the Golden Deer House. Out in the fields gracing the outskirts of Garreg Mach, where the earth is supple and the trees are taller, he trains with Leonie and Hilda and Professor Byleth herself. They’d just done a seminar on brawling and she’d asked for his help -- “I’m hoping your eagerness might bolster Hilda’s,” she’d told him, and he’d flushed. As he so often did whenever she praised him.

The four of them take turns sparring in pairs. Leonie hardly needs the training -- he’s faster, but she’s far more practiced, her right hook nearly knocking him flat -- but Hilda hardly puts forth the effort into fighting. Getting her to step up is much like pulling teeth.

“I’m just not built for this sort of fighting style,” she complains, furrowing her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “I’m too dainty!”

Ashe wastes no time encouraging her, thinking nothing of the possible consequences when he tells her brightly, “Don’t sell yourself short, Hilda! You’re tough, I’m sure you could take me down easy with those muscles of yours!”

Hilda is upon him as quickly as her eyes flash. He’s not sure what it is about what he says that sets her off like that, but with all the force of a whirlwind, she swings at him -- the weight behind it not unlike a boulder toppling over a cliff. He has no chance of dodging. She slugs him in the gut, swinging him into a headlock, and it’s then that he wholly forgets how to breathe.

Not that he very easily _can_, anyway. Her grip is so tight, squeezing his throat with such pressure he feels dizzy. The wind is knocked out of him, lungs seized as he struggles for air. 

“What do you mean ‘tough’?” she grouses in his ear. 

The warmth of her breath on his skin makes the hair on the back of his neck stick up. She’s hardly even trying; he can feel in the flex of her biceps that she isn’t putting forth all her might, and yet she’s subdued him so easily. She _is_ tough. She could snap his neck with a flick of her wrist if she really wanted to. The thought makes his heart beat harder. 

“Are you saying I look like a brute?" she hisses. "I’ll show you a brute!”

“That’s quite enough, Hilda,” the professor tells her calmly, but her eyes are curiously fixated on Ashe’s. He doesn’t know what to call the flurry of emotions he feels fluttering in his chest -- he’s a little embarrassed, definitely excited, but somehow those words still don’t feel accurate. He watches the professor’s eyes slide over his face carefully, like she’s trying to read him but can’t. Hilda lets him go with a _hmph!_ and they follow their teacher back to the grounds.

Ashe would find himself reaching absently for his neck throughout the rest of the day. 

He wakes up the next morning still thinking about it. He wraps his hand around his throat and squeezes, gasping at the feeling. There’s a thrill to it, something about the tightness that makes his stomach flip. It’s not the same, doing it to himself, but it feels good enough that his other hand wanders to the front of his pants. 

Days and then weeks pass, and he still thinks about it. Not necessarily about the fact that it happened with Hilda, in particular -- she’s extremely pretty, of course, but he doesn’t think his dilemma relates directly to her. He has a theory, and he works up the nerve to test it with Sylvain and Felix. The three of them are sparring, and somehow Felix winds up on top of him, his knees digging into the dirt on either side of his hips. Ashe’s heart leaps when the hilt of his sword meets his throat and _there it is_. That warm, familiar rush returns, making the blood thunder in his eardrums. His swallows so hard he knows Felix can feel it against his knuckles. The steel of the blade is icy on his searing skin. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and it almost looks as though Felix understands something he doesn’t.

He gets up off of him quickly. They don’t talk about it. He doesn’t know who to talk about it with.

“You seem frustrated, Ashe,” Mercedes notices a few days afterward, watching him collapse at the table. He’s early for the archery seminar, and she and Ignatz are the only other students in the common room. 

“Is something bothering you?” the other boy asks him, concern in his gentle voice. 

Ashe shakes his head bashfully. “N-Not really, I’m just -- I just have a lot on my mind today.”

Ignatz frowns, searching his face. “Would it help to talk about it?”

He looks away, the tips of his ears scorching hot. It would help a great deal to talk about it, but he’s ashamed and he can’t parse _why_. If there were a way he could sink into floor, he’d do it, mortified with embarrassment. “It’s nothing I’d want to bother either of you with…”

“Don’t be silly,” the older girl smiles, patting the empty space next to her. “We’re your friends, we’re here to support you if something’s troubling you. Right, Ignatz?”

“Of course,” he assures him, and he’s smiling softly too. “You can trust us.”

Obliging, he slides onto the bench next to Mercedes, wringing his hands. When he's convinced no one else is going to enter the classroom, he lets himself open up, scrambling for a way to describe his plight.

“Well, it’s just that....Um. Have either of you ever...hm.”

“Take your time," Ignatz tries to help. It almost works.

“I...Every time I spar with someone and they hurt me, I get this feeling," he starts, trying to relax. " There's a rush of blood, and it feels like my nerves are set aflame.”

“Hmm. Adrenaline?” Ignatz muses, but Mercedes looks intrigued. 

“Kind of, yeah," Ashe continues. "My heart starts racing, and I get light-headed.”

“Are you sure you're not just getting scared?" Ignatz wonders. "It’s totally normal to get scared, even during training. We have some really strong classmates.”

“No, it’s...not like that." Ashe feels himself flush magenta. "It's not that I feel afraid. Well -- maybe a little bit. But it’s like, I’m happy? To be afraid? It’s -- hard to explain. It's like I get -- "

“Horny.”

Ignatz slaps a hand over his mouth. “M-Mercedes!”

Ashe blinks several times, leaning in to make sure he hadn't misheard her. “I...w-what?”

“Have you never heard of this term before?" Mercedes asks plainly, ignoring Ignatz. "You know, turned-on, aroused -- it means you’re excited, but in a sexy way. Horny!”

“Do you really need to keep saying that word?” Ignatz looks a bit flushed as well as he fumbles with his glasses. Mercedes doesn't mind him, just looks curiously back at Ashe, who stares back at her with his mouth agape.

“Oh, Ashe, let me guess," she starts, playfully. "You were sparring with one of our classmates, and they put their hands on you in a certain way. Maybe you were hit really hard? Slapped? Choked?”

He swallows. “I -- was choked first, yes.”

“You were choked, and it probably hurt a bit, but you liked it. Is that the case?”

How does she possibly know? Her intuition must be on another level, he thinks. “Y-Yes, but I…?”

“Oh, Ashe," she says fondly. "That feeling you get when someone strikes you -- the flutter in your heart, the dizziness? That happens because those actions stimulate you. I think you may have just discovered your kink.”

“Kink?”

Mercedes beams at him like a proud teacher. “Yes! A kink is a stimulant, something that excites you sexually. There are all kinds of kinks. Different people like different things. Although, I can’t say that I’ve known very many people who like getting hurt…”

His face falls. “Is there...something wrong with me, then?”

She rests a hand upon his, comforting him. “Oh no, certainly not! It just means you’ll have to be careful. You may like getting hurt, but you’ll have to make sure you don’t push yourself too hard. More importantly, don’t let any potential partners push you past your limits, or you could wind up seriously injured.”

“My limits? How will I know my limits?”

“Through experimentation -- sort of a trial-and-error," she explains. "If it stops feeling good, that’s when you’ll know.” 

“Experimentation," he repeats, mulling over her advice. "I see. Thank you, Mercedes.”

“You’re welcome! I hope I’ve helped," she says kindly. 

Professor Byleth arrives to begin the lecture and he spends the better part of the hour daydreaming about experimenting with her. 

* * *

Ashe is eighteen when he is first presented the chance to experiment. 

It’s the night of the ball, and he sneaks off to the Goddess Tower in hopes of catching a break. To his surprise, and his delight, Professor Byleth is there too -- glowing from the champagne and excitement, but with sleep under her eyes. 

“Professor!” he chirps. “Are you looking for a rest too?” 

She tells him as much. The two of them find they have a shared anxiety with parties like these, and it’s in this moment he hears her laugh for the first time. Ashe has heard the phrase “butterflies in your stomach” all his life, but when she asks him to dance with her, he actually feels it. They return to the ballroom and she holds his hand and leans into his shoulder and she’s _warm_, so warm. She radiates heat, comforting and inviting. Her eyes seem to sparkle whenever she looks at him -- and she looks at him a lot. 

“See, you’re not a bad dancer at all,” she compliments him, her voice light and airy. “You made the White Heron Cup, after all.”

He feels himself blushing. Furiously. It’s not the first time she’s complimented him, but she’s never been touching him whilst doing so. She’s not trying to lean in so close, but her chest is so big that it presses against his anyway. His heart starts to thump. “That’s just because I’m usually dancing on my own, it’s harder with a partner.”

“You’re doing just fine with me.” 

Ashe stutters through some expression of gratitude and holds a little tighter to her waist as they sway and turn. He doesn’t know if the orchestra is playing quieter now or if the _badumbadum_ of his heartbeat is getting louder. Byleth’s hand in his is so, so soft; her fingers so slender. He wants them clenched around his throat _so_ badly. 

She smiles at him time and again, praising his footwork and telling him how glad she is that he’d joined her class -- and at the exact moment Ferdinand Von Aegir taps his shoulder to beg pardon, it dawns on him -- 

(“Please, do forgive me, er -- Ashe, was it?” he says so politely, bowing before him. “May I cut in?”

Awkward and earnest, Ashe bows too, earning himself a hearty chortle from the pretty, charming Duke Heir as he thanks him kindly for the opportunity. The professor nods and turns her attention to her new dance partner. He watches them just for a moment, just long enough to watch the professor smile one more time before making a brisk exit) -- he’s in love with her. 

An iron fist seems to clutch at his heart. It’s a heavy weight, sinking down farther with every step he takes across the courtyard as he thinks about every word of affirmation, every cooking session, every violet she’d ever given him. Ashe swallows a breath, rationalizing -- it’s not as though he’s the only one she’d ever done these things for. The professor has ways of showing all of her students how much she appreciates them, it’s not like she’d given him any special sort of treatment.

Right? She learned how to bake so she could make those chocolate croissants Lysithea likes so much. She buys blue stone for Ignatz every week when the merchants from out east are in town. She grew lavender in the greenhouse just because she knew how much Mercedes loved them -- 

_But does she look at them the same way she looks at you?_

Ashe is pulled from the thought as quickly as it crosses his mind -- he’s almost at his dormitory when he hears a soft crying, coming from under a tree. Whirling around, he spots a girl crouched behind a bench, sniffling and whimpering. He narrows his eyes, trying to make out who it is in the dark.

“Dorothea?”

The singer snaps to attention, quickly wiping her tears. “O-Oh, goodness, you gave me a fright.”

“I’m so sorry!” he apologizes, dropping to his knees next to her. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you?”

She shakes her pretty head, glitter falling like confetti from the soft waves of her hair. Her makeup is running. Tears paint black streaks down her fair cheeks, but it doesn’t make her look any less beautiful -- quite the contrary, Ashe thinks. She heaves a sigh, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeves of her party dress. 

“Sweet of you to be so concerned, especially when I’m not much more than a stranger,” she says sheepishly, very obviously embarrassed. “You’re in the professor’s class, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Ashe, Ashe Ubert,” he answers her eagerly, his cheeks reddening when she smiles.

“_Just_ Ubert? You’re a commoner like me, then?” 

“I-I am,” he confirms. He’s not sure why she would ask. 

“Ashe,” she repeats, slowly, in a lower voice than she started with. She seems to be staring at his lips. “I'm sorry to ask, but it's been quite a night. Will you do me a huge favor, and walk me to my room?” 

Heart leaping, Ashe nods quickly, helping her to her feet. They walk together in a comfortable silence, and when they reach her room, she winds her fist in his shirt and pulls him close.

“D-Dorothea?” he mutters. His hands seem to move on their own as they latch onto her waist. She’s taller than him, almost looming. Her eyelashes are thick and flutter against her powdered cheeks. It’s almost hypnotic to look at. 

The older girl kisses him, doesn’t wait for permission. It’s not as though he would have said no, anyway. Ashe has never kissed anyone before. For a former opera star to be his first makes his head spin. She’s warm, her mouth hot and wet and soft. He clings to the silky fabric of her dress and pushes her further inside and she kicks the door closed behind them. Dorothea slams him against it and he cries out.

“Sorry, did I scare you?” she apologizes -- not sounding very sorry in the least. Ashe shakes his head, grinning nervously. 

“Not at all, I -- "

She doesn’t let him continue, and that's just as well. He’s not sure of what else he would have said. He opens his mouth to her, following her lead -- rolling his tongue over hers as she slides it inside. It’s a steady, heavy kiss, and he likes the way she grasps his shirtfront. She’s strong. She kisses so fiercely. She takes his bottom lip between her teeth and he moans a little louder than intended.

“Mmm, you liked that, didn’t you,” she purrs, pressing her hips into his. The front of his pants are swelling uncomfortably. 

“Y-Yes.” He’s melting, he swears it. She giggles and nips at his earlobe and his hips jerk. “D-Dorothea…”

She doesn’t reply. She peppers kisses along his jawline, and down the length of his throat. He shivers, holding onto her as he shakes, feverishly. Dorothea snickers and sinks her teeth into his skin and Ashe thinks he’s going to die of a heart attack at eighteen. She bites him hard, clawing at his chest and he screams, frightened and alarmed and incredibly turned-on. 

He must have scared her a bit too, because she jumps back and slaps him right across the face.

“Ashe! What are you thinking! Someone could come in here!” she scolds him with a whisper-yell -- but the anger melts away from her face when she sees the look upon his. 

It stings. Terribly, at first, but as it lingers, Ashe feels that it’s pleasantly warm. The shock of it jolts all the way down his spine. He clutches his chest, assuring his heart hasn’t stopped -- it hasn’t. Dorothea brings her trembling hands to his face to cradle him and he feels it threatening to break free from his rib cage and make a run for it. 

“I’m so sorry, Ashe, I -- I don’t know what came over me,” she apologizes, so sincere and gentle. She kisses the height of his cheekbone, pecking short and soft caresses on his freckles. “Are you alright?”

Ashe pulls away to meet her with hazy eyes as he makes his boldest request yet.

“Please, hit me again.” 

* * *

Ashe is twenty-two when the professor hurts him for the first time. 

Of course, when he’d imagined this scenario the hundred times in his life, it had been nothing like the reality of laying in the infirmary, enduring the excruciating effects of Miasma -- but the way she dug her fingertips into the soreness of his aching wounds was, he thinks, a fair trade for his suffering. She’d taken him back. After twenty wrong turns, after broken promises and selfish choices, she’d saved him. He deserves to lie here pitifully and in pain for a couple more days. He collapses against the pillows, scrambling to cover himself as Manuela stumbles around the room.

“She certainly left in a hurry,” she muses, slurring her words as the door slams. The professor had bolted from the hospital room, brushing past her so fast it’s a wonder Manuela is still on her feet, hungover as she looks. “Anyway, forgive my whining, darling. How are you feeling today?”

“F-Fine,” he answers quickly, sinking lower beneath the sheets. 

“The professor said you’ve already had your treatment, is that right?”

“Y-Yes, I just took it,” he assures her, willing her not to come any closer, but of course she does.

“Very good. Soreness easing up at all?” she asks absently, her brows creased with concern as she struggles to string her sentences together. “No new pains or aches? Let me have a look at you.”

He shields himself to no avail, as her practiced hands are upon his forehead in an instant.

“Oh my heavens, Ashe, it feels like you’re running a fever -- "

“It’s alright, I feel perfectly normal,” he argues, but she moves to his throat, pressing her fingers at the dip in his neck right above his collarbone to feel his pulse. He chews his bottom lip, the heat in his cheeks worsening. Manuela clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes.

“Darling, your pulse is pounding harder than that noble’s feet hit the pavement last night,” she drawls. “You poor thing. I do hope it’s not a reaction to the vapor. Hang on just a moment, I’ll get some ice.”

Ashe groans, thankful she’s far out of it enough that she hasn’t picked up on anything. If she weren’t hungover he’s sure he’d be in trouble. The Goddess must be feeling merciful today. 

Manuela clumsily slaps an ice pack on his forehead. “There, there, now just lay back, nice and easy. Does that help?”

“Y-Yes, thank you, Professor,” he murmurs, smiling weakly at her. 

“Poor dear. Now you just rest up then, okay? I’ll be back to check on you later.” 

“Right, yes, um -- thank you, Professor Manuela,” he says, curling into the covers. She winks, waving at him as she reaches for the doorknob.

“Oh, darling, please, just Manuela is fine, we’re all adults here, aren’t we? Bye bye!”

The door is shut with a click and Ashe throws the suffocating sheets off of him, hands diving down into his lounge pants to give his cock the attention it's ached for since Professor Byleth walked into the room. How she hadn't noticed the tent in his pants as she essentially gave him a rub-down, he has no idea -- or perhaps she had, and she just hadn't said. He isn't sure which possibility is more humiliating, but shamefully enough, he finds titillation in either one. 

Ashe massages himself, the tip of his dick already leaking. He squeezes around his length, groaning in pain as the muscles in his stomach twitch -- it hurts, but only a little, not enough to make him want to stop. He strokes himself greedily, slick with sweat and his own fluids, the sting of the lingering vapors piercing his nostrils. His wounds ache, but if he remembers the professor's hands pushing and knuckling into his flesh, he can pump himself as hard as he likes it. Tears bloom in the corners of his eyes and his chest throbs -- his free hand flies up to his neck. Harshly, Ashe chokes himself, gasping and sputtering as he feels his pulse _thudthudthud_ in his throat. 

The professor's hands had been so warm, just as soft as he'd remembered. If she'd strangled him in the Valley rather than fired a shot of dark magic at him, he wonders how much more easily he would have succumbed. Buckled at the knees, panicked for air as frightened soldiers looked on -- the fire in her eyes as she'd beg him to stand down. She could very well break his neck, but she wouldn't, she would never. She would never do anything to hurt him anymore than he'd ask for, and that's exactly why he needs her to step on his chest. Goddess help him, that's a hot idea. 

He holds his breath and spills himself onto his chest, the mess of cum hot and sticky and unwelcome on his already slick skin. He lies there for a few moments, willing his nerves to settle before he reaches for a cloth. As he wipes himself up, he wonders if he really has any right to be here, safe behind the sturdy walls of Garreg Mach, behind the professor who fought so hard to get him back. 

Even if he doesn't, he must do whatever he can to repay his debt.


	3. me for tea

Byleth cums with a scream. 

She’d transported to her quarters right from the second floor of the monastery, panting and groaning and dripping wet. She hadn’t bothered in taking off her clothes, just slammed her door shut and tugged off her panties and dropped to the floor, kneeling beside her bed. She’d clawed her sheets right off with the hand that wasn’t fucking herself, ripping a hole in the already shabby blankets. Bucking into her hand, she’d taken three fingers knuckle-deep and chewed on her arm, giving herself an ugly mar in the shape of her own mouth. It hadn’t taken more than five minutes for her to finish. Thinking about Ashe half-naked and sweating and rose-red in the face had her cunt _gushing_. She sweats when she climaxes, burying her face in her mattress. She feels filthy and terrible, but shamefully satisfied -- she’s needed the release.

She sighs. She feels heavy, like she’d been dunked into the pond with all her clothes on and now has to drag her sopping body back to the docks. She has no energy to climb onto her bed, so she flops onto the floor. Stares up at the ceiling. 

Perhaps she should not have done that, she thinks. Given him his treatment like that. Hardly considerable as injury care and shamefully more like borderline foreplay. He’s incapacitated -- because of _her_, no less -- and she’d taken advantage of him. 

She groans, throwing her arm over her face. Maybe that’s a harsh way of putting it -- she’s probably being a little dramatic. It certainly wasn’t the most wholesome interaction they’d ever had, that’s sure -- but her touch had not been unwelcome. He’d made that abundantly clear. He’s not a child anymore -- not her student. Five years have passed, whether or not it feels like it for her. 

Byleth groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. If Manuela hadn’t walked in....What would she even have done? She knows very well what she’d wanted to do (climb on top of him) (straddle his hips) (drag her teeth across his chest) (fuck him breathless), but he’s sick, injured, likely not thinking clearly -- dark magic can knock even the wisest of sages into a stupor. No matter how compliant he was in the moment, there’s no telling any further advancements would have been welcome -- or wouldn’t have made either or both of them feel like complete horseshit afterward. Wrong place, wrong time. 

But somehow that makes it all the more enticing. Byleth had never been known for destructive habits, but her appetite for mischief has never been entirely non-existent -- she supposes she has Claude to thank for that. And from the way he'd looked at her, she supposes Ashe shares much the same taste for it.

Byleth chews on her lip, sighing. Thinking of the way he'd moaned for her. She closes her eyes and all she can see is his desperate, pleading stare. He’d wanted more, even though it was hurting him. His heart was drumming so hard beneath her fingertips -- her hands ache to feel that again. She turns over on the floor and groans, sliding her hand up her skirt again, the rasping way he'd whispered “professor” playing on a loop in her head as she slides her fingers over her slit. 

She’s wet again.

This is pathetic. This is embarrassing and stupid and pathetic. She murmurs his name as she cums a second time.

* * *

It would be days before she would see Ashe again.

After acquainting herself with Judith and the Daphnel soldiers and aiding the Knights on a few quests, Byleth returns to the infirmary the following Sunday and finds it completely empty. Which should be a relief, of course, but a small part of her feels almost disappointed. If he’s well again, then he’s not in need of any of her..._help_, but that’s just as well. He’s probably forgotten all about their reunion anyway, given that he was likely delirious. The whole thing was just a fluke, an embarrassing blip in their relationship. She figures it best to forget about it -- save herself the awkwardness for when they actually do have a moment to talk. 

She catches a few fish and pets a few cats and then makes her way to the cathedral.

She tries not to be here too much. People come here to find peace, to relax, but Byleth has never felt at rest in these great chambers. The echoes of whispers and prying eyes of statues bore through her, judging her as harshly as the monks and janitors who turn their heads at the loud clack of her boots against the marble. The atmosphere felt cold to begin with, but now it’s as though it’s iced over, brittle and freezing. 

Byleth never understood the people who believed the Goddess to watch over this place -- or anywhere, more or less. She’s not a ghost. She doesn’t linger, doesn’t rest. She's not behind crumbling walls or hidden in the fractures of shattered glass, yet those who claim to love her clamor to talk to her here.

She kneels before the mountain of rubble, watching the sunlight pour through the gaping chasm in the ceiling. It spills over the relics and paintings, washing them in amber and gold -- it’s beautiful enough to make her forget about the bleeding walls and broken pillars behind them. She digs her hands into the rubbish and watches the dirt and rubble trickle through her fingers, wondering if Sothis can even hear her when she thinks: _I miss you_. 

She’s not a ghost, but it feels like she's haunted. 

“Professor?” 

Byleth turns about, a feather-lightness in her chest carrying her to her feet. “Ashe.”

He squints through a smile, beams of sunlight haloing around his pretty head. His presence is both soothing and unnerving and she’s baffled at how that could be so. Her hands start to shake. “H-Hi, Professor.”

She grins with her teeth. “You look well, Ashe. Are you feeling better?”

“Much, thank you,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I still have a bit of soreness, but Manuela said I’m good to get back on my feet.” 

“Good,” she nods, quickly sobering as guilt starts to tug at her. She stares at the floor. “Um. Ashe. About the other day…”

His shoulders stiffen. “W-What about. The other day?”

There’s a panic in his bright eyes, belying his stuttering words -- he must know _exactly_ “what” about the other day. Byleth clears her throat, briefly wishing she could have the aid of her nagging guardian again, wondering how much she would berate her if she knew. 

“When we were -- when I left, so suddenly,” she explains, vaguely, intently. He lifts his brows, licking his lips. “I didn’t leave us any time to talk. I just...need you to know that I am so, so sorry for what I did to you…”

“Oh no Professor, you have nothing to apologize for!”

Yes she does. He’s insistent, smiling through it -- not making it any easier, of course.

“Ashe, I’ve treated you terribly,” she tries again, trying again to be deliberate in her choice of words. Watching his face. 

“Professor, please, trust me,” he pleads with her, slowing his speech. He doesn’t blink when next he speaks. “There’s nothing you’ve put me through that I wouldn’t happily endure again.” 

Byleth bites on her lip. His eyes fall there, only for the briefest moment. “Is that true?”

“Cross my heart,” he giggles, making the motion with his forefinger. He is so very cute. 

“Well. I'm glad to see you doing better. I’m happy that you’re here,” she tells him fondly, and quickly adds, “All of us are.”

“Even Lorenz?” he jokes, and Byleth sighs, forcing a laugh. 

“Even Lorenz. He’ll be a bit standoffish for a while, but...even he hadn’t stopped trusting you. None of us have.”

“Heh. I was so sure that it was too late for that,” he confesses, quietly. “I think that’s why I didn’t try to come back myself.”

“Really? I was certain it was because you had a duty to uphold.” 

“That’s what I thought, at first,” he opens up to her. “After seeing the suffering of the townspeople, though, I started to second guess myself. Gwendal hadn’t really cared about supporting the Empire, you see...but I think you must have already figured that out.”

She nods, solemnly. “He was just looking for a place to die. To drag whomever he could to the grave with him.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs. “He didn’t care about ideals or honor or how best to protect our people. But by the time I’d realized, I just. Couldn’t bring myself to leave, even if I knew in my heart that I should have.”

She frowns, stomach sinking as his eyes start to look watery. “Ashe…” 

“I’m beginning to question everything, Professor,” his voice cracks. “Heh, I’ve started to think...maybe I don’t know what it means to have honor at all. All I could think about was how to best protect my brother and sister. I was so focused on them, I blinded myself to everything else…I was selfish.”

“No you weren't," she contests him. "We all have something we want to protect, Ashe. Claude would never fault you for that.”

“He’s told me as much,” he says, a little happier. “I shouldn’t be so surprised that he understands. He’s one of the best people I’ve ever come to know.” 

“He says the same of you.”

“R-Really?”

“Of course,” she says warmly, watching the color rise rapidly in his face. “He likes to play coy, but he adores you. He's elated that you’ve rejoined us -- everyone is.”

“I -- geez, Professor, you’re making me blush,” Ashe laughs playfully, his cheeks and neck a luminous shade of magenta as he pulls bashfully on the lacing of his lounge shirt. He tugs down on it just enough to reveal the spatter of freckles along his collarbone, and Byleth hears the clicking of that enigmatic Wheel again, ever so faintly. Something hot is melting beneath her breast the longer her eyes linger there. She doesn’t hear him clear this throat.

“Professor? Is something wrong?”

She blinks. “Hm? Oh, no, it’s nothing -- I just remembered I have a...supply run.”

“Oh, do you need any help?” he pipes up with the same energy he’s harnessed since he was sixteen, grinning hopefully.

“Don’t worry about me,” she shakes her head, hoping she’s not as pink in the face as she feels. “I’d rather you catch up with the others, if you haven’t already. I know Ignatz was hoping to spend some time with you.” 

“O-Oh, of course,” he mutters, taken aback. “Right. Um. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Right, later,” she repeats him, and wills her legs to move, to carry her around the bluff of rocky debris -- but The Wheel is stuttering on its cycle, as if hitting a bump on its track. She stills, a leaping feeling in her stomach as she turns on her heel, back in his direction. She shouldn’t -- but she wants to -- but this is a bad idea --

“Ashe?” she strides back up to him in earnest and his eyes widen.

“Y-Yes? Did you forget something?”

“Do you wanna have me for tea tomorrow?”

Oh, fuck it all. She swallows hard, dizzy from the whiplash she’d just given herself. Ashe flushes again and it’s so endearing and attractive it’s practically unbearable.

“I...s-sorry, I didn’t quite -- “

“Do you. Want to have me -- TEA,” she corrects herself, her mouth outpacing her mind at an alarming rate. She tries to control her breathing. “Do you want to have tea. With me. Tomorrow?” 

“Oh! I -- yes! Yes, I’d love to! Just like old times, huh?” 

He sounds so sincerely excited she could burst. Byleth nods, forcing herself to smile just enough to not seem too eager or too delighted. “Great. I’ll come find you after training in the morning.”

“O-Okay,” he agrees, and she darts back around the rubbish pile a little more quickly than she intended. She lifts her eyes just in time to have them meet with the prying gaze of the Alliance Leader himself. 

Claude winks at her, leaning against a decrepit pillar with his arms folded. “Smooth talking, there, Teach.”

“Were you listening?” she scolds him, seizing his arm as she drags him to follow her through the eastern exit of the chapel. 

“Only for long enough to hear you stumble over your words.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Aw, Teach, I hadn’t meant it to be rude. It’s just uplifting to see puppy love amidst all this war.”

“My pursuits are not for your entertainment.”

“So you _are_ pursuing him -- ”

“Claude.”

“I’m sorry! You’re right, it’s callous of me to pry. It’s none of my business,” he slows his walk, resting his hands behind his head. 

Byleth sighs, stops at the edge of the terrace to stare out at the Goddess Tower. It's almost funny, how much it hasn't changed. Whereas other towers and bridges had been humbled by the ravages of battles, this one stands undamaged. The night she met Ashe there feels like a lifetime past her, a distant memory so far out of reach she wonders now if it had actually happened at all. She can hardly recall what they’d wished for, if anything. Whatever it was, she can’t help but worry that she’s getting in the way of it coming true.

“Do you think it’s wrong.”

“What?” Claude follows her eyes, frowning.

“Pursuing him,” she answers. “Pursuing anyone, in such a time. It’s wrong of me, isn’t it?”

He rests his elbows on the terrace next to her and she leans into his shoulder. “Teach...that’s what you’re worried about?”

“I’m worried about a lot of things.”

“I’m sure he is, too,” he offers. “We’re all scared and desperate, aren’t we?”

“It’s the wrong place, the wrong time,” she says soberly, but he chuckles softly.

“It is. But at the same time...isn’t that exactly why you should?”

She tilts her head, training her eye on his smirk as he shrugs. 

“Do you really think it’s wrong, or are you just waiting for some divine blessing to move forward?” 

Byleth knits her brows, wondering how on earth it came to be so that he would understand her so easily. 

“Because if that's the case, you’ll be waiting on approval from someone you’ll never get it from.”

He's not wrong. Fleeting thoughts of Sothis tug at her insides, knotting them up. It matters little, but her encouragement would mean so much -- would solidify her confidence, but she's gone. She will likely never the hear the voice of the Goddess again, not since she's become her mouthpiece. It makes her feel colder, lonelier. 

"It may be the wrong time, but it may also be the Only Time," Claude adds, nudging her gently. "Just another thing for you to add to the stirring contents of your mind bowl, Teach."

The corners of her mouth quirk upward as she shakes her head, elbowing him in the ribs. "Thank you, my friend."


	4. a taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait ;_;
> 
> borrowed dialogue from the a support, forgive the familiarity. i thought the conversation was more suited to a little tea time.

He finds him just where he thought he would.

Out by the edge of the castle grounds, just before the village comes into sight, there’s a meadow, lush and green. The trees are sparse there, but the grass grows tall, and in the spring, pink peonies and tulips bloom in abundance. Ashe would come here alone as a teenager, whenever he was feeling anxious or suffocated by the horrors of fighting. Whenever he'd lose the grip on his resolve, he found solace in the whispering grasses. It hadn’t been until after Lonato had passed that he’d find Ignatz in the very same spot, quietly making his art. 

He’d been crying, hugging his knees with his face buried in them, and Ignatz had dropped his supplies and his canvas to sink next to him, to hold him. He said nothing, knowing he didn’t need to -- he had just been there for him. It became something of their little secret, then. They would meet there time and again, sometimes to cry together -- sometimes Ashe would watch him paint. Sometimes they just talked. Whatever they needed, they’d always seem to find each other there. It was their spot, and Ashe feels his heart swell twice its size when he finds him there again.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” 

Ignatz yelps, whirling about in surprise -- his face brightens once he realizes. “Ashe! Hi! Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” He tucks his paintbrush behind his ear, rising up to embrace him. Ashe wraps his arms around his shoulders, shaky and unsteady from the nerves and of course, his friends notices right away. He pulls back, lowering his voice. “Are you alright? You look a little red....”

“She asked me to tea,” he says quickly, in a much higher register than normal. Ignatz blinks, baffled.

“S-Sorry, what?”

“She asked me to tea!" he whines. "Well, first she asked me to have her for tea, and then she corrected herself, but -- "

“Hold -- hold on, Ashe, _who_ asked you?”

“The professor!”

“Oh!” Ignatz grins with the fire of the rising sun, joyous and bright -- but then immediately falters into a knowing panic. “OH -- oh dear.”

He drags a hand over his face. “I know! I know. What do I do?”

“Well, you used to meet her for tea all the time,” Ignatz tries, but Ashe is beside himself.

“Y-Yes, but I was just a kid back then,” he tells him. “It feels different this time, like she’s asking me on a...a…”

“Date?”

Heart rate kicking up several notches, Ashe buries his flushed face in his hands and sinks onto a tree stump. “Geez, Ignatz!”

“Oh Ashe, don’t be embarrassed, I think it’s wonderful!” Ever the hopeless romantic, Ignatz beams at him. He kneels, resting his hands on Ashe’s knees -- an old gesture of comfort. Smears of paint rub off on his pants, staining them orange and green.

“It can't really be a date, can it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ignatz insists, completely serious. “How couldn’t it be? Everybody knows you’ve always been her favorite -- it wouldn’t be a surprise if her past feelings have blossomed into something of a crush.”

“W-What!” Ashe yelps, incredulous. “No way, that can’t be true -- "

“Oh, Ashe, really?,” he shakes his head with pity, brows furrowed. “Don’t you remember the state of the greenhouse that summer? Right before you joined our class? Not a Sunday would pass without us watching her carry a basket of violets in her arms.”

He searches the deep of Ignatz’s round, brown eyes, remembering Professor Byleth with her arm slung through a woven basket. Brilliant bluish-purple petals trailing behind her as she’d cross the bridge to the cathedral. She was so much more stoic then, her lips hardly curving into a smile when she’d presented him with gifts. Gifts begotten of her patience and tender care, yet she’d made them seem like no big deal at all. 

Perhaps that was why it was easy to pretend he was nothing special.

“I don’t know, Ignatz,” he wavers, clutching his friend’s hands. “A crush, on me?”

“Is it so unbelievable?” The painter chortles and smiles wide, fondly. Knowing. 

“I don’t know,” he says again, fiddling with his fingers. “She’s leading an army against the Empire and I’m just -- me. Hardly a knight, no Crest, no money. What could she get out of being with someone like me?”

“You know things like that don’t matter to her,” he nudges him. 

“But I’m just a commoner, a nobody,” he bemoans, “I don’t even stand out in looks."

“Ashe, are you kidding?” Ignatz balks at him. “Your biceps are bigger than Saint Indech’s memorial statue -- your freckles look as though the Goddess herself sprinkled stardust across your nose -- "

Blushing furiously, Ashe hides his face again, dissolving into laughter. “Ignatz, please! I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re right, you deserve even better,” he tells him warmly, getting back up on his feet. “Which is why I think you should welcome her pursuit. You like her too, don’t you?”

“I do, very much so,” Ashe softens, clutching at his chest. “She makes my heart thump.”

Ignatz coos. “That’s adorable -- I’m sure she’d melt if you told her.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he sighs, pessimistic. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve done anything romantic, I...I’m not sure I really know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Just let it come naturally,” his friend advises. “Say what you feel, as you feel it. Don’t worry about sounding practised or experienced. Words that spill right from your heart are the most beautiful of all.”

“You always know just what to say, Ignatz.” It’s his turn to poke fun at him. “Why did we ever break up?” He scrunches his nose up like he would when they were kids. Ignatz folds his arms, tapping his chin with his index finger.

“Hmm, remember when you fled to House Rowe without telling anybody?” He can hardly keep a straight face, and neither can Ashe. 

“Ah, yes. Not my proudest moment.” 

They share a leisurely laugh, the kind that drops off with a satisfied sigh. And then Ignatz touches his shoulder, speaking with conviction. 

“I never did blame you, you know,” he says it like he really wants to make sure. “None of us did. Not once.”

He feels himself melting. He smiles with tenderness, pulling his friend close for another embrace. They were always so free with their affections -- it means more than he can fathom that this remains unchanged. “Thank you, Ignatz.” 

“I’m so happy you’re with us again, my friend,” Ignatz tells him in his ear, squeezing tighter around him. He rests his chin on his shoulder.

“I’m happy to be with you, too.”

“Are you two gonna kiss, or what?” 

They jump apart with a yelp, leaping almost a foot off the ground as Lysithea snarks at them. There’s an age-old sharpness in her eyes, but her mouth is just slightly curved into a smirk.

“You could have made your presence known a little earlier, you know,” Ignatz groans, sagging his shoulders.

“And ruin your touching reunion?” she teases. “Assuming I haven’t already.”

“I’m sure we can preserve something of the moment,” Ashe humors her, looking her over in her modest smallclothes and tidy hair bun. She crosses her arms.

“Wonderful,” she starts, “then if you’re done canoodling, I’m sure you’d like to know the professor has been looking for you, Ashe.” 

“OH, NO, dammit!” Ashe swears -- he'd almost completely forgotten. He gathers himself, slipping his shoes back on before bolting off toward the castle gates. 

“So it _is_ a date, isn’t it?” Ignatz asks her, already starting to laugh. Lysithea joins him, looking off as he becomes a blur of gray and green, galloping through the bushes like a pony. 

“Oh it is,” she muses. “It definitely is.”

* * *

It's not the first time he'd been in her quarters. He'd come before, a few times to deliver messages when Cyril couldn't, to drop off books he'd borrowed. He'd even had tea with her here once before, with Lysithea (after they'd had a good scare in the library.) The room itself looks much the same -- teakwood desk stacked with papers and modest bed draped in fleeces and quilts -- but it feels different. Whether it's the heavy aroma of berry pastries or the palpable tension in the air, he isn't quite sure. 

“Good morning Ashe.” She smiles at him, eyes half-lidded and droopy. She’s barely even half-dressed, a black bathrobe slung lazily about her shoulders that does nothing to cover the skimpy nightdress she has on underneath. She must have just woken up. She stretches her long legs under the table, wild mint hair falling around her face. She's so beautiful even when tired.

“H-Hi Professor,” he mutters, drawing out his chair. She leans over to start pouring him a cup of tea and he has to try very hard not to fixate on the way her breasts spill onto the table. “U-Um, thank you -- it smells delicious…”

“The merchants had mint leaves, finally,” she says, her voice a deep, heavy purr. From sleepiness, he’s sure. “I’m not sure it’s still your favorite, but…”

“O-Oh, no!” Ashe smacks himself internally. It’s far too soon to be this clumsy already! “I mean, yes! It is! That’s -- really kind of you to remember…” 

The professor slides the cup carefully across the table to him before taking a sip herself. The sharp scent is homey, comforting. He blows on it, still too hot. 

“Don’t burn your tongue,” she says, cautious. His hands start to shake. 

“Yes, r-right,” he chirps. He sets the cup down, meeting her face expectantly. She’s unusually silent. In the past, though he’d been more talkative, she had always initiated conversation -- it feels a little strange now. It’s possible she feels just as nervous as he is, and somehow this instills an ounce or two of confidence within him, at least enough to break the ice. He clears his throat, grabbing a spoon for sugar. 

“I um -- I ran into that thief while I was shopping yesterday.” 

He catches her eye and her shoulders loosen. She blinks, intrigued, maybe a bit more relaxed. “Thief?”

Ashe lets himself giggle, fiddling with his spoon. “Sorry, it’s been a long time since. That thief I caught years ago, the one who took the book? I saw him with his kid at the market.”

The corners of her mouth lift as she nods. “Ah, I remember now. So it all worked out then?”

Frowning, Ashe sighs. “Well, they thanked me for my help...but they still seemed to be having trouble getting by. Maybe if I had more money, I could have done more for them.”

“I’m sure they appreciate your compassion all the same,” she tells him, after a beat. She’s still smiling — well, enough of one that it still counts. He nods, feeling his face flush several shades pinker as he buries his face in his teacup.

“Yes, I hope so,” he says. “I may not be able to solve every problem, but you’re right. Having compassion for others means just as much. I have to believe that, at least.”

“That’s just like you,” she says evenly, but with an unmistakable fondness in her eyes. 

“Thanks, that’s kind of you to say,” he says shyly, willing the rush of blood to stop, stop. He picks up a fluffy croissant to hide most of his face behind as he thinks of something else — anything else to say. “Um, what about you, Professor? Has anything been bothering you, lately? Could that be why you called for me?”

The softness in her eyes lifts as she seems to have caught herself on something. She shrugs, reaching for a slice of strawberry sponge cake as she coughs. “No, not...not really.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he insists, grateful to shove off some of his embarrassment. “I’m sure there’s something I could help with! You’ve got so much on your shoulders already -- I’d like to lighten your load, if I could. I care about you, and want to see you happy.”

A flash of interest lights up her face for a moment. “You care about me, huh?” She takes a slow, deliberate bite of her cake. Her teeth rake across the fork. Words stick to the roof of his mouth as he clutches his spoon.

“I — I didn’t mean it in a romantic way, I just…”

“It’s okay, Ashe,” she says gently, breathing out a giggle and Ashe almost chokes. She’s never giggled much before — not like this. It’s cute. (She’s cute.) (_So_ cute.) “Just...chat with me for a little while. Your voice puts me at ease.”

He’s not sure how much deeper his face can flush, but he can feel the burn of fuschia as though someone is shoving his face into a furnace. “It does?”

“Yes,” she nods. “Hearing you talk is something of a comfort. I’ve missed it.”

“O-Oh!” he yelps, voice quivering. “Oh, well, thank you, I — I’ve never had anyone tell me that before. Sorry, I’m a little embarrassed now…”

“Why don’t you tell me about your siblings,” she suggests, mercifully. “I’ve realized that I don’t even know their names.”

“My siblings?” he repeats. The change of subject is welcome — anything to stave off his schoolboy blush. He fidgets and helps himself to a slice of the cake. “Oh, um, well — they're seventeen and fifteen -- Pearl and Sterling.”

“Almost grown,” she remarks, like she’s impressed. “Where are they?”

“Well, after the battle in Ailell, I wasn’t sure if Castle Gaspard would be safe for them anymore,” he explains. “So I asked Judith if she knew of anywhere they could go, and she kindly offered shelter in House Daphnel. I told them in a letter to flee as soon as they could, and to write me as soon as they arrived, but…”

His voice trails off. It had hardly been a week since he’d written them, and surely it would take quite some time for them to reach Alliance territory on their own — yet his anxiety hadn’t been quelled by their silence. It’s too soon to worry, but his heart can’t quite grasp that. The professor seems to understand already, reaching across the table to rest her palm over his hand. 

“Well, if they’re anything like their big brother, I’m sure they’re just fine.”

She’s warm. Her skin is calloused and rough — working hands, a mercenary's hands. But soothing heat radiates from her touch, making his heart flutter.

“You’re right. I’m not a parent, but…” he smiles at her, encouraged. “I did the best I could with them.” 

The professor pulls back her hand. The loss of contact leaves him cold, already aching to feel it again — but she’s hovering, staring at him. Her pupils are wide, deep pools of inky black. He chews the inner of his cheek.

“What is it?” he asks her, too nervous to even blink. 

“You’ve got a little cream, just there,” she says, trying to mirror it on her own face. He brushes the left side of his mouth.

“Did I get it?”

Lips pursed, she shakes her head. “No, it’s...here, let me…” 

In less time than it takes for him to take a breath, Professor Byleth’s hand is upon his cheek. She turns his face with the gentlest of touches, swiping her forefinger along his bottom lip to wipe off the cream. There is no twitch, no color in her face as she does this, but this closely, Ashe can hear her throat work down a hard swallow of saliva. As you feel it, he thinks, feeling his heart thudding. In a bold move, Ashe takes her wrist before she can draw her hand away, and slowly lifts her fingers to his lips. 

He can hear her breathing stop. He parts his mouth only just so, darting his tongue out to roll over her finger. His eyes flick up to hers with the light of a devil inside, daring her to hold his gaze. She does. She doesn’t blink -- but her lips tremble. Ashe watches a deep flush of carnation bloom in her cheeks as he wraps his lips around her and _sucks_. His teeth grate ever so slightly against her nail. Her skin is so warm, buttery sweet to taste. There’s the faintest note of strawberry and it makes his mouth water. Eyes falling shut, he hums a small noise of contentment and the professor shudders through a sigh. 

“Ashe…”

With a maddening slowness, Ashe glides her fingers out between his lips, making a point to touch the pads of her fingertips to his lips before licking them. He watches her jaw fall slack, desperate eyes shaded by the flutter of her thick lashes. The pink in her cheeks probably matches his. Her chest rises on an inhale, in anticipation of a string of words, he’s sure, but he won’t get to hear them over the loud, insistent knock that would promptly shatter their heated silence. 

Ashe startles so harshly he almost knocks over his teacup. The professor shrinks in her seat, the light leaving her eyes as she straightens her face. She sounds thoroughly defeated as she calls out, “Come in.”

“Professor! Pardon my — oh,” Leonie stops dead in the doorway, looking perplexed between her and Ashe, who hardly thinks at this point that his face will ever return to a passably normal color again. He stutters through a greeting and the professor grunts a hello, waving to the redhead. 

“What do you need, Leonie?” she asks bluntly. Ashe could almost laugh — she actually sounds _so_ disappointed. 

“Incoming request from a travelling merchant group,” she explains quickly, casting him a curious glance. “Monster activity, a few miles north of the monastery. They’re wondering if anyone would be available to help secure the area, make sure they can travel safely into town. If we head out now, I'm sure we could return before nightfall."

The professor lifts her brows, looking expectantly at Ashe. “Well, should we lend a hand?”

“Y-Yes, of course,” he agrees, and Leonie grins, wide and grateful. 

“Great, I think a group of five of us should be fine. I’ll grab Raphael and Lysithea. Thanks a ton, Professor!”

Bowing her head, the professor says nothing for the moment, just watches Leonie turn through the doorway. She heaves a groan. 

"Um, I'll go pack up, then," Ashe offers, a tremble in his voice. Her expression is back to unreadable as she stretches her arms. 

"Thank you, Ashe."

She falls quiet, picking at her fingers as she stares at the half-eaten cake on the table and he wonders briefly if he's done something wrong -- perhaps his little stunt was crossing a line of some sort. His gesture hadn't seemed _unwelcome_, exactly -- and the blank look on her face should be no cause for alarm as it's she's just Like That. But there's a shift in the air, a different brand of tension. He's not sure if he's plucked the wrong string.

"Um, thanks for the tea," he tells her bashfully, awkwardly bowing his head as he creeps toward the door. Her eyes fall over his face, and though she makes no effort to smile, she nods.

"You're welcome. I hope we can do it again soon." She speaks and his heart spreads wings. He could fly across the monastery. He fumbles for the doorknob. 

"O-Of course, I'll meet you at the gates!"


	5. grind on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> petition for fe dancer units to grind on me

“Fuck, Leonie.”

Byleth has to laugh. She has to, or else she’ll cry. She was so close -- to what, exactly, she has no idea -- but if she was as far as having her fingers in his mouth, she’s sure something else could have also made its way there as well had Leonie Pinelli not banged on her bedroom door. “Fuck,” she says again, and she can’t help another laugh. It is funny, really, because of course this would happen -- maybe it’s a sign. She shouldn’t be doing this, even if he wants it. 

Byleth chews her thumbnail. He does want her, doesn’t he. If it hadn't been clear before, it certainly is now. He doesn’t even try to hide it -- he sucked on her fingers!! She touches them to her lips to taste him, Goddess willing, on her skin. She slips her tongue out and licks her digits and hopes it’s not just her own sweat she’s tasting. An indirect kiss, she thinks this must be. Laughs at herself for being childish. But she feels so warm, like bubbles are floating and popping in her belly. She’ll carry that giddy feeling with her as she packs up her gear and makes for the northern gates.

***

Lysithea huffs. “I really don’t like these things.”

Earth beneath their feet quakes and splits as the twenty-something-foot-tall fiends stomp about, tossing around their ugly heads and spitting gunk and bile. They’re a few yards away, but the stench of their breath permeates the air surrounding. Byleth groans. She laments the other ideas she’d had for her afternoon, none of them involving spilling green and blue blood all over the forest, but she wasn’t about to ignore people in need. 

“Yeah, me neither. But if there’s only two, this could be over quickly.” Byleth unsheathes her sword. Leonie saddles up, trotting over next to her with Raphael in tow. 

“Our orders, professor?”

“Take Raphel to the front,” Byleth instructs her. “The three of us can handle the heavy hitting. Flayn and Lysithea will hang back on healing duty. I’ll have Ashe snipe from the thicket, and…”

She glances aside, sliding her eyes over Ashe’s slender figure in a most shameless manner. He’s swathed in the dancer robes, silks of pale blue and ivory draped around his broad shoulders, his bare leg peeking out from underneath the dangling jewelry. The top almost looks too tight for him now -- she can make the outline of his chest through the stretched fabric. He looks nervous to be wearing it again, but smiles assuredly at her, ears turning pink. “Provide inspiration when needed,” she finally finishes.

“Sounds like a plan to me!” Leonie chirps, thankfully oblivious. Lysithea is not so much so, lifting her brows curiously as she draws Thyrsus from the sling round her back. She takes a step forward as if meaning to say something, but she’s cut off by a gust of rubble and dust. Flayn swoops over the group, pegasus feathers flying as she rears her steed to a hover.

“Only two beasts, Professor!” she starts. “The route back into town will be secured upon their defeat.” 

“Thank you, Flayn,” she says cordially. “Please see the merchants to safety, and look out for my signal if we have trouble.”

“Understood!”

She flutters past, back over the treetops, and the rest of them are left to face off against two roaring, drooling monsters of absurd size. Byleth shrugs with a sigh and cracks the Sword of the Creator into form. 

“Alright, let’s clean up, everyone.” 

Forward charge. Byleth swings left as Leonie and Raphael hang to the right -- spit and saliva rain over the foliage as she slashes at the monster’s legs. Blasts of fire explode in its face, thank you Lysithea, a masterful distraction as she tears away its flesh with her blade. A blinding flash of light from a cast of Seraphim strikes the beast square in the chest, but before it topples, Lysithea is struck and sent crashing into the bushes. 

“Are you alright, Lysithea?” Byleth calls out to her, worried, but the mage waves her off.

“I’m fine -- it’s just stronger than expected,” she groans, visibly frustrated. “Conjuring is giving me a headache.”

There’s a whistle of bells as Ashe hurries closer to the edge of the field, and Byleth struggles to keep her eyes on the enemy. 

“I think you have another go in you, don’t you?” she hears him practically singing. “Maybe a dance can help?”

“I-If you insist, I’m certainly not going to complain...:”

Lysithea had always been shy about being on the receiving end of dances, awkward and bashful. Byleth remembers Ashe dancing for her only once before, in their academy days. She was blushing furiously, even more so than he -- who, back then, for as naturally gifted and charming as he was, had also been easily embarrassed by such displays. His moves were modest and swift then, and she got back on her feet in a hurry, but he’s taking his time now, an air of confidence around him as he bows his head and twirls for Lysithea, one arm raised heavenward as the other floats around his hip. Lysithea sputters a rare, girlish giggle, covering her face while he sways this way and that, hanging jewelry chiming. When he bends just so, Byleth can see that oh, he has freckles creeping up the length of his thighs, too. 

Focusing is hard. Tuning out Ashe’s winsome laughter is even harder. A dangerous thought crosses her mind as she casts a blaze of fire -- in a second, she makes up her mind. She climbs over a boulder and trips herself up on purpose, sends a fire spell in completely the wrong direction, right in his line of sight. She stumbles, losing her footing as the beasts growls and flails around, launching blasts of poison breath at Leonie and Raphael, yards away. 

Just as expected, the dancer comes running.

“Professor! Are you hurt?” he frets, offering his hand to her -- she takes it, but doesn’t let him pull her up.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” she says, and with a doleful frown, she adds, “Just a little tired.”

Ashe’s mouth twitches. He lifts a brow, something dark crossing his face as his voice drops a little lower. “A little tired, huh?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, feigning helplessness, letting herself smile a little as he visibly swallows. “I could probably take this beast down with another blow, but….”

Byleth licks her lips. “I’m just so. Unmotivated.”

His breathing quickens, worry creasing his forehead as he must be realizing -- this is a test. He was so bold as to play with her earlier, and this is payback. 

“U-Um...well, if you’re feeling uninspired, I um -- ” he fumbles, wringing his hands in his robes, “I might know something that could...move you?”

There we go. She knew she wouldn’t have to do all the work. Propping herself up against the rocks, she heaves a breath, wryly watching his eyes widen as her chest rises and falls. “Oh, really? What could that be?”

“I-I um...perhaps a dance?” he strains. He sounds more than a little hoarse. 

“Hm, maybe,” she needles him. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

He doesn’t speak right away -- he starts off with a bow, as he’d always done, before swaying his hips. Only a little, at first, eyes downcast shyly as he opens his arms in an elegant spread. Warmth tickles her core, spreading quickly up into her stomach and chest as excitement boils in her blood. His eyes flicker to hers, dark and heavy-lidded as he watches her expression change. 

“It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it, Professor?” he murmurs, rolling his shoulders and twirling.

“It has. Are you nervous?” she asks him uselessly -- of course he’s nervous. He’s trembling as he moves, hands shaking like leaves. 

“You can tell,” he says, swinging his hips to and fro, the movements a little more fluid, a little braver. 

“Of course I can tell. I like to think I know my students.”

This gets a little laugh out of him as he drops low to the ground, rolling his hips on his rise back up, twirling his hands outward in a come-hither motion she’s never seen him do before. (He might be getting an idea of what he’s doing to her.) “Come now, Professor, you know I’m not your pupil anymore.”

Byleth takes her lip under her teeth. She rubs her hands down over her own hips so as to keep herself from touching his instead. “And yet you still can’t seem to drop the formality.”

“Would you prefer I do?” he teases, humming as his fingers float to his hips. He winds them in his robes, lifting them just enough to slip her a glimpse of freckled skin. 

“Mmm I would prefer you do that again, but, a little closer to me,” she purrs at him, forgetting completely that they’re in the middle of a battlefield with a groaning beast behind them as he leans over her in a hover, the hypnotic way he sways for her and the heat from his skin making her dizzy. 

“Like this…?” The silks are slipping off his shoulders. He trails his hands down the length of his neck, lets them dance across his chest as his hips swing. His rhythmic breathing provides a steady beat for him to keep time with. He’s practically gyrating in her lap now. Byleth can’t help but moan.

“Ashe…”

“Are you feeling...stimulated, Byleth?”

He grinds his hips a maddening five inches above hers, but the space can’t deter from the stiffening bulge she feels nesting into the cradle of her hips. He’s panting, eyes locked with hers. Sweat glistens at his throat, dripping into the bowl of his collarbone. His heart must be pounding, his face is scarlet. Byleth has to touch him, but she won’t get to --

“Professor! Ashe! Behind you!” Raphael’s panicked shout cuts through her ears like a crashing gong -- the beast claws at the rock Ashe has her pinned against, and they both duck just in time. Lysithea hollers something fierce as a harsh burst of light erupts in the beast’s face and it’s knocked out for good. It falls with a great thud, trees and shrubbery quaking. 

“Are you alright?” Leonie’s voice comes in with the hurried hoof-beats of her steed. 

“That was a close one!” Raphael exclaims, relieved and completely unwitting, but Lysithea is seething.

“I should say!” 

“You guys okay?” Raphael helps Byleth to her feet. “Guess that beast had one more swing left in ‘em!” 

“We’re alright, everything is fine,” she nods, regaining her composure. “Thank you, Lysithea.”

“It may have been weak, but it still could have taken your heads off with one swipe,” Lysithea chides them, nostrils flaring. “Honestly, Professor, how could you let yourself be so distracted?” 

Ashe gurgles. Byleth shoots him a don’t-you-dare and he runs his hands shakily through his hair, chewing his inner cheek.

“Hey, aren’t you being a little harsh, Lysithea?” Raphael tries it, but Byleth holds up her hands.

“Raphael, it’s fine, she’s right. I was careless,” she admits, avoiding Ashe’s guilty stare. “I shouldn’t have let my guard down like that. My apologies.”

As if on cue, Flayn descends, her pegasus whinnying as she reigns her to a halt. “Professor, the area is clear! The merchants are safe.”

“Thank you, Flayn,” she nods to her, and then to the rest of the group. “Good work, everyone. Let’s head back.” 

She’s silent for the whole short walk back through town. 

***

Byleth wouldn’t see Ashe for days afterward. Not because he’s avoiding her, thankfully -- but painfully, it’s quite possible he believes _she’s_ avoiding him. She makes excuses not to spend time around him; eating meals alone in her room to get out of cooking with him, fishing at night, skipping out on gardening altogether. It’s unfair, as he did nothing wrong, nothing that she hadn’t (desperately) wanted him to do -- she’s just ashamed, embarrassed for it. Raphael and Leonie are awkward and short with her, and Lysithea is still giving her the cold shoulder. She hasn't spoken to her in days.

She’s not sure she likes herself when she’s around him, and now she’s worried her trusted comrades and friends don’t like her, either. Byleth can’t tiptoe around it forever -- walking on eggshells hurts more than just her feet, and as expected, Claude can tell she’s in pain.

“Heard you had yourself an exciting day the other day,” he opens with a quip. They’re the only two people in the sauna tonight. He dabs at his neck with a towel and Byleth groans, reluctant to have this conversation, but she should.

“Sure, you could call it that.” She doesn’t look at him, just leans back against the wall.

“Slaying a couple monsters, saving some merchants, getting yourself a lap dance…”

“Claude,” she warns him, but he’s determined to tug it out of her. 

“Lysithea told me about your little distraction out there.” 

She’s not surprised. If she wasn’t going to talk to her, of course she would talk to Claude. “She did, did she.”

“Mhmm -- so how was it, Teach? Did you feel a bit of his -- ah, _inspiration_ before she saved your skins?” 

“Claude!” she would laugh if she weren’t so embarrassed. She smacks him with her rolled up towel and he yelps like a mutt, delighted to play.

“You know, if Lysithea didn’t look so cute when she’s pissed, I’d probably be a little disappointed in ya, Teach!” he says, still teasing her. “I feel like I should thank you.”

“You’re welcome, then.” Her voice drops off as she watches the lines around his mouth straighten up. 

“Seriously, though,” he starts, somberly, “I know fighting monsters is a typical Thursday for us these days, but you can never be too careful. We all deserve a nice distraction -- that’s why we love having a dancer! -- but frankly…”

“I know, Claude. I know,” she snaps at him, without really meaning to. “It was stupid of me. It won’t happen again.” 

“I’m guessing you haven’t talked to him yet,” he says softly, with concern. Of course, here we go, then. She falls quiet, an uncomfortable tightness in her chest as she turns to face him, furrowing her brow helplessly. 

“How am I supposed to, after the way I behaved?”

“What, like a deprived teenager?” he tries to joke, but her frown deepens. 

“Claude.”

“Teach, we all do stupid things when we’re wrapped up in our feelings," he says gently, resting a sweaty hand on her arm and she doesn't mind it, glad for the comforting contact. "That’s why we should talk about them. Get them out, so they stop messing with your head.”

“I’ve never talked about my feelings, Claude, only fucked about them," she says dryly, upset with herself. Claude groans -- this isn't news at all, he's known. Byleth hadn't exactly ever been in love, having viewed it as a concept, something unattainable given the life she's led. Love belonged in fairy tales, to people who had no callings beyond their happiness, not people like her who had to fight to make their living. Not for people at war. Sex wasn't the same thing. It was easy to have sex with someone -- there was nothing to talk about. It's not like that, with Ashe. It's more than just wanting to fuck him, and Claude can tell. He groans at her.

“Well you better decide if you’re gonna fuck him tonight, or plan to talk to him soon," he says with an air of humor. "Because we’re facing Ferdinand Von fucking Aiger on that bridge tomorrow, and I need you focused, Teach."

He cards a hand through his damp hair, wet strays sticking to his forehead. He's right, she knows. This isn't a simple mission, this is the Imperial Army. Distractions of any kind are too costly, and as underhanded as they are, they can afford none of them. She opens her mouth, unsure of what even she wants to say -- not I'm sorry, because I'm sorry doesn't assure him of anything. She's not ready to talk to him, so she can't tell him she will, either, but it doesn't seem as though he expects that. He reaches for her shoulders, holding her in his clutch as they stare at each other. 

"Your feelings aren’t the problem, you realize that, right?" he says softly. It seems to dawn on him that she hadn't, because tears swell in her eyes and he pulls her closer. "Nobody’s upset with you for that. It's the way you're not dealing with them. It's getting to you, and what gets to you gets to the rest of us."

Byleth nods, her face buried in his shoulder. She clings to him, muttering a thank-you into his sweaty skin. 

"It's hard to be happy in times like these," he tells her, his chin on top of her head. "But we should do what we can to make our lives a little brighter, don't you think?"

Yeah. She thinks so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for such big gaps in posting. if you're still keeping up, i thank you kindly for your patience with my lack of a posting schedule, please do enjoy, and more to come <3


	6. ah, shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wingman claude is one of the best fanon things i've ever developed  
*i don’t think i made it clear as to whom actually is present in the golden deer house, but please assume only ashe and dorothea were recruited  
*my apologies for such a boring short update but we're getting closer to the real fun, promise!

Ferdinand Von Aiger is dead. 

The bridge has been seized, and a messenger from northern Alliance territory meets their army as soon as they arrive back at the monastery with notice from Count Gloucester. With Myrddin secured and faith restored, Lorenz’s father agrees to support the Alliance against Imperial forces, and offers his troops to Claude. It’s another victory, and with increasing numbers and inflated supplies, the idea that they could really put a stop to this war suddenly doesn’t seem so impossible anymore. Hope lives to inspire them, if only to fight for one more day.

Hope lives, and yet the professor is even more detached -- more distant. Ashe has not met with her once since the week before their march, and when he finally sees her, she’s crying. Barely, but enough to pluck at his heartstrings. She’s sitting at the edge of the dock with Dorothea and they’re clutching each other, and he faintly overhears their lament. “He was our friend.” 

Our friend, he thinks. He swallows and it feels like taking a rock down his throat. The weight sits heavy in his chest, pushing him down. He didn’t know Ferdinand -- not really, but even after she’d joined the Golden Deer, Dorothea had stayed rather close to him. In spite of herself, as it seemed. They were so different. Different lives, different histories, and yet it was so clear that they cared so much about each other. _So_ much, but in the end, that wasn’t enough, was it? Sometimes love is not enough. The force he used to think could change the world failed before his eyes, crushed by duty and honor and responsibility -- things he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand anymore. He wonders if he ever did to begin with. 

He’s well across the fishing pond, but he can see Dorothea’s eyes clearly, dark and despondent. He can imagine the pain she’s in, what she must be feeling -- he’d almost done it to himself. 

If he’d refused the professor in the valley, he wonders. Would she have cried for him too? Did he matter that much to her, that she crossed the hot coals to approach him? “Leave this place, come home with me.” Home, she’d said. 

“My home is gone,” he’d told her defiantly, venomously. He’d been so angry; angry at the church, angry at the Empire -- they’d taken everything away from him and he had only the scraps he started with, dirt and dust to save his siblings with. The Golden Deer House had been all that remained after Lonato was executed, and when she disappeared, she took it with her. They fell apart without her. He didn’t want to be, but he thinks he’d been angry at her most of all. Her disappearance had broken his already fractured heart -- it didn’t matter that it hadn’t been her choice, that it had been an accident. Some unholy twist of fate didn’t lessen the blow. He took it hard enough to run away, to disappear like she did -- 

And yet they still took him back. _She_ took him back, with open, loving arms, and he forgave her the instant she told him “I’ve missed you.” How quickly he’d done away with his honor and devoir in that moment. Upon realizing how much she wanted to save him, how important he was to her, he understands even less how Ferdinand couldn't do the same -- how it couldn’t work this time. What kept Ferdinand’s heart from being swayed? Duty to his Emperor? Her ideals? _Love_? Ashe sighs, not realizing he’d been staring so long at the two women across the pond. Neither of them look to be aware of anyone else’s presence, though, so he watches them embrace, gazing longingly at the professor. 

Throughout history, legends and fairy tales have been abundant with starstruck knights who fought for love. Ashe grew up on those stories, idealizing and romanticizing them. When he was young, he daydreamed about falling for a radiant noble, someone he could protect, worship in his own way, through holy deeds. Loyalty to love was pure and honest, much more altruistic than a simple contract or a means to get paid. To serve in the name of love -- he could think of nothing more chivalrous. Is that not why he’s here, after all He cares immensely for Claude's ideals, and believes in his capacity to do the best thing for Fodlan -- but above all else, he's here because he loves her, loves his former teacher. He’s known that since he was seventeen. But is it stupid, he wonders, to be fighting for love, or is it only stupid if she doesn't love him?

_Does_ she love him?

“Hey, Ashe.”

"AH -- "

Ashe loses his footing, saved from slipping straight into the pond by Claude's quick hold of his arm.

“Whoa there, sorry about that!” the Lord apologizes, frowning.

“Claude! You gave me a fright,” he breathes, catching himself. 

“Not my intention, I swear,” he says playfully, leaning on a stack of crates. He knocks over a bucket in the process, startling a nearby cat. He outstretches his hand, whispering gibberish at it -- it curls around Ashe’s legs instead. He groans. “You just looked so forlorn, staring at the water all alone out here. Thought you could use somebody to talk to.”

“I was just thinking about Ferdinand,” he tells him, half-honest. Byleth and Dorothea have already started up the stairs to the dining hall, wandering out of sight. Claude follows his eyes, heaving out a sigh.

“We’re reaching the point where we cross blades with more of our friends on the battlefield,” Claude murmurs, solemn. “Hilda was the one who...well, you saw it.”

“Is she alright?” he asks uselessly, and Claude responds with an ironic snort. 

“She’s going to have to be,” he says. Ashe can hear in his voice that he loathes to say it, but it’s true, for all of them. 

“It’ll only get worse from here, won’t it?” he asks childishly, and the duke graces him with a smile.

“Unless everyone is like you, Ashe, laying down their weapons after a heartfelt exchange with the professor.” 

“Hey, that’s not all it took for me to yield,” he jokes with him, earning himself a laugh. 

“Right, right, you melted for her after the blast of Miasma.” 

The tips of his ears burn crimson as he quickly defends himself, “H-Hey, I didn’t melt -- "

But Claude just laughs harder, scaring the cat that had wrapped itself around Ashe’s feet. “Oh, Ashe, you should have seen the look on your face. You were adorable! No wonder she’s in love with you.”

The Grand Duke's face falls the instant his last word tumbles from his lips. Ashe freezes, heart seizing in his chest as he whips his head round to stare into Claude's wide, panicked eyes. He struggles to find his voice.

“Wh...what?” 

He's never seen Claude's face turn so red.

“Ah, _shit_.”


	7. pass the pipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> teachers toke up in the greenhouse to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in terms of completion, we are at the halfway point!

“So he knows, huh?”

Manuela stretches, coming close to knocking Byleth upside her head with her elbow. She’s sprawled out lazily next to her colleague (friend, she can say they’re friends), her long legs draped over hers as they pass a pipe between them. Byleth lets her head fall back against the garden wall, eyes falling shut as the older woman lights up for her.

“He knows.”

The doctor clicks her tongue. “Oh, Claude…”

Byleth shrugs, taking a hit and slowly inhaling, coughing just a little as she waves a cloud of smoke away from Manuela’s face. “I know. I can’t say I didn’t expect it.”

“Yeah, go figure!” she exclaims, taking the pipe back for a hit herself. Manuela laughs her way through an exhale, makeup creasing under her eyes. “The kids had a saying about your House back then, you know. ‘The Golden Deer can keep a secret if eight of them are dead.’” 

The professor lets herself laugh, if only just to see to it that Manuela’s not laughing alone. Her hands are a little cold against the inner of her forearm, long nails grazing comfortably against her. Byleth takes the pipe back from her trembling fingers, wrapping her lips around the spout and inhaling again. Manuela’s incessant giggles drop off into a sigh -- she wipes her mouth, smearing her rust-rose lipstick. 

“Are you angry?” she lowers her voice. Byleth stares back emptily.

“I was,” she admits. She plays with the open keyhole on her blouse, pulling at the fabric absently as she processes her response. “For a moment. Mostly, I just felt bad, I really let Claude have it -- but he’s not wrong.”

“About what?”

“The way I’ve been acting,” she laments, feeling the disappointment in herself resurfacing. “The bridge coup was a mess because of me. We won with sheer dumb luck.”

“Don’t feel too bad, dear. You’re not the only one who gets carried away by their feelings, around here,” she arches a brow, knowingly, and Byleth smiles just a little.

“I guess you’re right.” 

Manuela reaches for the flask tucked into her coat, a heady, deep aroma wafting around them as she twists open the cap. She throws back a quick gulp, offering some to her when she visibly swallows, but Byleth waves a hand to politely decline -- she’s already having a crisis, she doesn’t need to add being cross-faded into the mix. Manuela gets it. “When _were_ you going to tell him, then?”

“I wasn't,” she confesses, sheepishly.

“Oh, honey -- now what good would that do?”

Byleth groans -- she hadn’t explained it to Claude. For fear of what, she can’t rationalize. Not seeming cowardly; he would be the last person to judge her for that. No, it’s more complicated than that -- or actually quite simple. She hadn’t wanted to admit it to him, or to the rest of her former students -- but it’s Manuela. If anyone is going to possibly understand...

“I just thought...I could protect him better, if I didn’t admit it,” she says airily, feeling more and more light-headed as the words pour from her. The doctor leans in closer, soft, tangled curls brushing her face as she tugs on her arm to comfort her. “But...I think I was actually just trying to protect myself.” 

Manuela looks puzzled, tilting her head. “What from? You don’t honestly think he would reject you -- "

“No, not that,” Byleth shakes her head. “Much more selfish than that.” 

And there’s a lift in her lips, a slant of a knowing smile. Her brown eyes twinkle and the professor catches her breath, embarrassed, but all the same, newly weightless. She’s high, sure, but she feels a little freer. Tears are welling up in the corners of her eyes, and they both confuse and relieve her. 

“I think about it so much more now,” she starts to explain, staring at the swaying plants across the greenhouse. “How much it actually scares me. The risks are greater and greater with every battle, and I’m faced with it again and again...the very real chance that I could lose him. Any of them -- at any given time. It’s unbearable.”

A solemn quiet befalls the pair as Byleth chews her lip, thinking on all the times Manuela had come to her with the same fear. What had she always told her, then? _I’ll never let them fall. I’ll protect them. I will always save them._ Why is it so hard to believe in herself now? 

The creases of worry must be etched onto her face. Manuela’s voice sounds farther away than it actually is when she asks her, “You’ve really never felt this way before, have you?”

Byleth pauses, uselessly. It’s obvious. She strikes a match, lighting up again for one last hit of the pipe. 

“Is this what it’s supposed to feel like,” she deadpans, “like everything is crashing down around you?”

Manuela snorts, takes another swig of wine. “Ha! Sometimes. For some of us, always.” 

“I’m not sure I like it.”

“I don’t think anyone does.”

Byleth breathes out a laugh. “Why do we do this to ourselves?”

“Because, dear -- for all the pain and heartache that follows? All the suffering is worth it for the bliss of being loved in return.”

“Being loved in return,” she repeats, feeling the phrase leap off of her tongue. She stares between the sprouting leaves of the Dagda tree, the pink of its blossoms blurring and fogging in her vision. Manuela is giggling right next to her ear, but in her head, she can hear a different one -- a shyer, bubbly one, melodic and soft. Bashful, like a secret just for her. Something within her feels like it’s burning, and it’s not from the weed.


	8. interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the golden deer hold an intervention at the fishing pond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *i'm hoping to find a way to include the ashen wolves in future chapters!  
*after writing the entire first scene, i realized i'd left out dorothea :( please forgive my inability to keep up with my own consistencies and assume she was off doing something much more fun instead

Claude kicks a pebble into the pond, pointedly avoiding looking Ashe in the face as he smooths a hand over the stubble on his chin. 

“Claude, did I hear you correctly?” he wavers, feeling bile rise quickly up his throat. “Did you say she -- "

But a peek of something bright and rosy quickly catches his eye, and Claude swerves around him to greet --

“HILDA, how lovely it is to happen upon you at this hour!”

Her eyes narrow as if locked onto an enemy target. Groaning heavily, Hilda wrings her hands, sneering accusingly at Claude.

“What did you do _this_ time?”

“NOTHING -- ” Claude tries to defend himself, but Ashe is bursting at the seams to explain --

“Professor Byleth is -- ”

“In love with you? Yeah we know.”

“HILDA?” The men say together, and she lifts her delicately sculpted eyebrows, bewildered.

“What? Like we weren’t already aware.”

“All aware of what?” Lysithea appears behind her, bright eyes wide in interest.

“Our old professor’s in love with Ashe,” Hilda says casually, as if describing the weather, and Ashe just feels his jaw drop lower and lower. Lysithea shifts her gaze, gasping -- 

“Oh, you didn’t know?”

“YOU KNEW?” He feels his stomach drop too.

“I told you, we all knew."

“Define ‘all’ -- "

“Define ‘we’! I thought I was special!”

“Oh please, Claude, you’re not the only one who knows secrets.”

“What secrets?” Leonie hops into the circle, fishing rod swung over her shoulder. 

“It’s not a secret,” Lysithea challenges them, and Leonie just looks confused. 

“What’s not a secret?”

“Our professor’s in love with Ashe,” Hilda says again. Ashe’s heartbeat seems to pick up speed every time she says it. He swallows with difficulty, cheeks burning when he sees the wash of realization cross Leonie’s face.

“Oh! Meh, old news.”

“OLD NEWS?” Claude groans, and Ashe’s knees almost buckle.

“You knew too?!”

“Uh, yeah, I’m not blind.”

“Or deaf, apparently!”

“How is it that all of you knew already?” Ashe whimpers, and it’s then that Lorenz descends the staircase to the veranda -- 

“The Golden Deer can keep a secret if eight of them are dead.”

“Lorenz, where the hell’d you come out from?”

“Due to the incredibly high volume of your pitch, Claude, I heard you all the way from the dining hall."

And then Raphael comes trotting over, close behind, with an armful of pastries and bread --

“Lysithea, there you are! I saved you some of that cake, I left it on the -- hey, what’s everybody doing out here?”

“Claude spilled the beans,” Hilda says dryly, rolling her eyes, but the bigger man looks lost.

“What beans? Oh no, did you drop your dinner out here?”

“Raphael, can we please focus?”

“Claude told Ashe about the professor.”

“What about the professor?”

“About her agonizingly obvious affections for our friend from Faerghus, here.”

“W-Would we call it obvious?” Ashe stammers, embarrassed beyond comprehension. Everyone’s curious eyes on him makes him feel much like he’s shrinking, and he wishes with all his might to become one with the cobblestone beneath his feet. He looks to Hilda helplessly. “I honestly had no idea…”

Lorenz tilts back his head, curling a hand over his mouth that does absolutely nothing to conceal his delighted chortling. “Ohohoho Ashe, how adorably humble of you to feign ignorance!”

“Ashe, are you in denial again?” a soft voice chimes into the conversation, and Claude heaves another great sigh of exasperation -- 

“Great, now that Ignatz has joined us, we can all take turns gloating about how each one of us knew about it -- "

“Knew about what?”

A modest whisper creeps through the group, and Claude shakes his head.

“Marianne! Sorry, I knew I was forgetting someone.”

“The professor’s in love with Ashe,” Hilda says it once more, and Ashe swears he can see his heart beating through his shirt -- his pulse is thrumming uncomfortably in his neck. His face is so searing hot he’s probably started running a fever by now. He chews on his bottom lip, wondering briefly if pond water does any good for keeping down vomit. This is the single most mortifying experience he’s ever had in his life. How unfair that there’s no nearby foxhole he can crawl into and bury himself in alive -- 

“Oh! Um...forgive me, but -- ” Winding her dainty hands at her sides, the priestess lets her eyes fall, shrinking aside a little farther away from the group. “I’d thought we’d already established this…”

Her too?! A horrible knot twists itself at the base of his throat -- the cobblestone looks like it would make a fantastic new home, definitely. He could drop dead right now and let Dorte stomp over his corpse. “Marianne, you t-too?” 

“My apologies, Ashe, I didn’t mean to pry,” she apologizes sincerely, barely audible despite everyone else having quieted themselves. “I’d sincerely believed that you had already known.”

“Did she say something to all of you?” he frets, looking between the Deer -- each one of them looks to be more than a little guilty.

“She didn’t need to,” Leonie offers, and Hilda scoffs.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say for the past ten minutes -- “

“She asked you to have tea in her bedroom,” Leonie ignores her, a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

“You were in her _room_?!” Ignatz chides him, and he winces. “Come on, Ashe, I told you it was a date!”

“But she never said that it -- "

“Well, I did interrupt you guys,” Leonie giggles, a little sheepish, but bemused. “What if she was going to, and I just ruined the moment? I’m still so sorry about that!”

“It’s okay, really,” Ashe insists, fighting a deepening blush upon remembering. “I’m actually not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

“But that’s just it though, isn’t it?” Hilda nudges him. Her voice is bubbling and sprightly as she tries to smile with hope. “You aren’t sure, so you can’t say she _didn’t_ want something to happen. If she invited you to her bedroom, she probably _did_ \-- "

“It was a date, she definitely did,” Ignatz harps on, poking Ashe in the ribs. 

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but seeing as I’ve already said too much anyway,” Claude smirks, “I know she definitely meant it. She was nervous about asking you, wondering if you’d get the hint. She was hoping you would -- the rest of us did.”

Ashe sighs, flustered and frustrated and honestly, a little impressed -- for as different and as self-serving as each of them are, the Golden Deer seem to share a hive mind when it comes to certain things. Of all the times to be out of the loop, though! 

“We don’t mean to make you feel foolish, or left out,” Ignatz assures him gently. “But it’s almost impossible not to notice. She did so much for you, just in an effort to make you happy.” He says it so happily, dreamily, and in turn, everyone else starts to smile a little as well, infected. 

“It’s true! Her eyes sparkle when she talks about you -- ”

“ -- she taught herself to cook to impress you! -- ”

“ -- she used to watch you read, and memorized passages from your favorite books -- ”

“ -- she cultivated violets out of season for months, just because she knew you loved them -- ”

“ -- when you didn’t come to the reunion, she cried in the library all night -- ”

“ -- she refused to leave you behind in Aillel -- ” 

“In conclusion, how could we not know?” Lysithea tells him sharply. “How could _you_ not know? Are you that insecure that you’ll dismiss glaring evidence, or are you really just that dense?”

“Lysithea, kinda harsh, don’t you think?” Raphael scolds her, but Lorenz clicks his tongue.

“I daresay, she has a point.” 

Ashe takes a breath, willing his nerves to calm uselessly. Everything within his body feels like it’s running at top speed, miles and miles per second, when all he wants to do is stop and try to think, to reason -- so he asks the one thing he’s been wondering since Claude first opened his mouth. “But why hasn’t she just...told me?”

“Now that, we don’t know,” Hilda tells him, after a beat of silence. 

“Maybe she’s scared,” Marianne muses, and Leonie waves dismissively.

“What could our extremely capable professor possibly be afraid of?”

“Not something so childish as rejection, I’m sure,” Lysithea insists.

“Well, put yourself in her place, for a moment,” Ignatz starts to explain, calmly, patiently. “Think about all the time she’s spent watching over us, nurturing us, leading us, and now…”

“Now, it’s war,” Leonie finishes, somberly. “It’s not mock battles at Gronder anymore, it’s...”

“She’s already saved your life once, Ashe,” Hilda frowns. “She’s probably afraid she won’t be able to again.”

“Accepting you’re in love with someone is one thing,” Ignatz starts, and the light leaves his eager eyes. “But accepting the real possibility that you could lose them…”

The racing of his heart slows to a near-startling halt as Ashe feels his burning face go pale. The tightness in his throat seizes him uncomfortably, making his next inhale feel like he’s trying to breathe through a crudely dug-out hole in the ground. He can’t believe he hadn’t even considered -- 

“Ashe, listen -- I’m really sorry,” Claude offers, reaching for his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have said anything. She deserved to tell you herself, when she was ready…”

Lorenz glances at him ruefully, pinching the bridge of his nose -- and Claude grunts, shifting to turn his back to him. 

“...But if I know her like I think I do, then she’s probably talked herself out of doing so, for...reasons likely within our speculation.”

“Not to bring up Captain Jeralt,” Leonie mutters, as she does indeed bring up Captain Jeralt, “but after watching what she went through with that, it’s no wonder…”

“It’s been years for us, but to her, everything must feel different,” Hilda laments. “That pain is probably still raw.”

“We’ve lost others along the way too, like Ferdinand,” Marianne adds, frowning.

“And? That could turn out to be true for any of us,” Raphael pipes up. “She’s a big girl, she knows we’re all at risk. She cares about us, and she’s good at proving it! It doesn’t mean she can’t _say it_ once in a while -- ”

Leonie’s face crumbles a little. “You’re right. In times like these....You never really know when you’ll get your last chance to talk.”

“If this war has taught us anything so far, it’s that our time together is precious,” Ignatz says light-heartedly, inching closer to Ashe. He takes his arm, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “Our professor knows that better than anyone, but. Brave as she is, maybe she needs someone else to take the initiative for a change…”

“Ashe,” Hilda commands his attention, and he lifts his watery eyes. “You love her, don’t you?” 

Only a few tears fall as he smiles through them, nodding. “With all my heart.” 

“Then I think you know what you need to do for her, don’t you?” Ignatz leans into him, reassuring. His touch is invigorating and warm. 

“I’ve told her once or twice,” Claude starts, half-grinning, “that even if it’s the wrong time, you still _have_ time -- time that’s not promised.” 

The wrong time. He’d never thought about time like that. Time was something to be measured and quantified -- how much you have or don’t have. In the academy, they had so much time. The days they spent studying and training were trapped in an hourglass, beads of sand slowly trickling through a shallow funnel. They had time to kill, and then they learned to kill. They killed Lonato, and then time seemed to stop altogether, but only for him. It passed so quickly for everyone else, and a war started before he even noticed that the hourglass had flipped --

Time doesn’t work like that for Byleth. He’s sure the powers of the Goddess keep her from grasping the concept normally, but it’s not just about the _way_ it passes. It’s not only a currency for her. Time can pass judgement, time can be right -- or wrong. And if it’s wrong, it’s costly. But if that’s all there is... 

“...It’s as good a reason as any to chase your bliss, isn’t it?”

* * *

He stands in front of her door for what feels like an hour. 

It’s well after dinner, but not so late that the guards have started patrolling, so it’s not like he’d be waking her up if he knocked. Even if he did, it’s not as though she would mind. She’s always happy to receive company, especially his, but the idea of her excitement makes him hesitate lifting his hand even more. He gulps. He hardly believes he needs to knock, at this rate -- his heart is pounding so loudly she can probably hear it, even with a foot between him and the door. He’s glad he passed on food, there’s no way he’d be able to keep anything down with nerves like these. Chewing his lip, he blows a heavy exhale through his nostrils, curls his hand into a fist and gently, softly raps on the door.

There’s a shuffle on the other side of it and he almost jumps out of his skin. The creak of the wood is deafening when it opens.

“Ashe,” she greets him, swallowing visibly.

“H-Hey, Byleth,” he manages to say, noting the almost instant blossom of color in her cheeks. She’s dressed-down for the evening, cloak and gauntlets missing, the pale expanse of her midriff impossible not to gape at. She leans against the door, watching his eyes drift downward. 

“Hey,” she says softly. She sounds a little nervous herself. 

“E-Excuse me, for disturbing you so late,” he fidgets, “but I…”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she teases him, smiling faintly. “Is everything alright?”

He chortles, wringing his hands. “Y-Yes, everything’s fine, I just...May I come in?”

Her eyes drift over his face, studying him just for half a moment before letting him brush aside her to step in.

Her quarters in quite a different state from the last time he’s been here -- papers strewn across the desk, open journals and texts, letters, melted candles. A mix of proposals prepared to be sent off in lieu of Myrddin’s capture, he’s sure. Everyone with noble families in the Alliance are sure to be travelling home soon to discuss further arrangements. Their forces are soon to be bolstered by a fair amount, but from the worry carved into the lines of Byleth’s face, even she isn’t sure it will be enough. His stomach wrenches. 

“I would offer you some tea, but I’m afraid it’s gone a bit cold,” she apologizes, reaching for her own cup, half-full. 

“That’s alright,” he assures her, looking around, following the scent of old parchment -- “I had some at...dinner…” -- and something on her bed catches his eye. “...I’m sorry, I must have disturbed you in the middle of reading -- ”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says quickly, plucking the book from between her quilts. The pink in her face brightens. “It’s not anything important…”

“What were you -- ” he catches himself, catching the red stamp on the spine -- a rushing thrill thunders through him as he realizes. “ -- huh. I recognize this book…”

“Do you?” she asks, with intrigue. 

“It looks to be -- The Temptation of Lady Sophia,” he guesses, confidently, fighting to hide his amusement. She nods, her own mirth plain on her face. She smiles a little wider, a little less embarrassed. He wishes it helped him relax, but his neck just feels hotter under his collar.

“I’m impressed you can tell by such a plain cover.”

“The emblem is what did it, actually! Merchants use that little red mark whenever they sell -- um..._these_ kinds of books,” he says, voice shaking. The fact that his (former -- former!) professor is reading erotica (that he’s read himself, no less) so shamelessly is giving him a rush of blood to the head (both of them.) "There's not too many copies going around markets, given the um -- content."

She inclines her head, a smile still stretched beneath her fixated stare.

"I used to have a copy that looked just like this one, with that same pink binding...I read it quite a few times before lending it to Ingrid, and then…” he stops himself, watching her forehead crease. He clears his throat awkwardly. “...well. What do you think so far?”

“I’m enjoying it. I’ve never read anything like -- _that_, before,” she tells him through a breathy laugh, knowing. “It’s pretty exciting.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” he breathes. “Where are you in the story?”

“I’m about halfway through. Sir Daniel has just climbed the tower of Count Vindel.”

“Oh, that’s my favorite part!” he gushes, nostalgia melting the anxiety away. “Right after the kingdom of Renais falls under siege, he scales the Forbidden Tower to find Sophia and confess his love before braving the battlefield.”

“Yes. It’s all very romantic,” she muses, agreeing. “His dialogue is so moving, I’d almost forgotten I was just reading a book. There’s so much feeling behind his words.”

“Yes, truly! I remember them well,” he reminisces fondly, feeling light on his feet. He looks to the window as though he can see Daniel himself, scaling the walls of the Goddess Tower, recollecting the passage perfectly, “‘If my time should come tomorrow, lay me gently in the fire. Scatter my ashes in a bed of Vindel’s roses’ -- ”

“ -- ‘for no greater place to rest than at my lady’s feet.’,” Byleth chimes in. Her voice is airy and melodic. He turns to face her and she isn’t smiling anymore, but she doesn’t look quite as sad as she’d just sounded. She blinks slowly, bright eyes following him as he boldly strides forward, closer to her, close enough to hear her breath quickening. He looks at the shape of her lips and loses the ability to think clearly.

“...‘If I am to die, then let it be for my lady’,” he quotes the fabled knight, staring deeply into her eyes. They’re so radiant, they almost seem to glow, almost render him speechless, but he still finish -- “‘For the grandest death of all, is death in the name of love.’” 

Byleth makes the softest sigh he’s ever heard. Having forgotten himself, Ashe pulls his head back down to this realm, remembers that he’s enclosed within four walls in a dormitory and not grasping the jutting stones of a haunted tower. His heart is still racing as though that’s what he just did, though, thumping mercilessly against his rib cage as his lady beams at him, looking forlorn and wistful and dreamy all at once. The faint clink of porcelain draws his eyes to her hands -- she’s clutching her tea cup so tightly it might shatter. 

“Byleth -- what’s wrong?” he hears himself say, in a lower voice than he thought he could produce. “You’re trembling…”

“Am I?” she murmurs absently, fixated on him. “Forgive me, it’s just -- you’re a very good actor, Ashe. I almost believed you.”

“What if I wanted you to?” he says without thinking, his heart outpacing his head at a rapid speed.

She barely croaks out a whisper. “To what?”

“To believe me?” He steps even closer to her, watching her chest move up and down quickly, so quickly, like she can’t catch her breath. 

“Ashe...what are you saying?”

“The words might not be my own, but…” Words stick in his throat, hard to swallow. A little bit hard to breathe. They’re sharing so much of the same air, this close. This close, he can see the flecks of blue in her lambent eyes, count each of her long lashes as they shade her glowing cheeks. She leans in just so, fingers outstretched to grasp at his as they embrace around the tea cup. A small giggle slips through her lips.

“Now look who’s trembling.”

He can’t help but laugh at little with her. “Byleth, I...I wanted to tell you -- "

And a thunderous, booming banging on the door scares both of them enough to launch them several feet apart, sending her cup of tea crashing to the floor. Ashe clutches her desk for balance, having almost toppled over -- but after a small scream, Byleth just looks dead-eyed, staring at the door as though it had just insulted her. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she mutters, jerking it open with her lips pressed into a hard line. The gatekeeper is on the other side to greet her, his face stark white. 

“Professor! O-oh, and Sir Ashe!” he looks flabbergasted between the two, but folds into a humble bow. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but there’s an urgent message from Lady Judith!”

Byleth shakes her head reluctantly. “It’s fine, please, go ahead.”

“Mysterious armed forces marching toward Garreg Mach, Professor -- flying the flag of Faerghus!”

Ashe feels the color drain from his face. “Faerghus? But -- Prince Dimitri…”

“How many are there?” Byleth asks, but the gatekeeper shrugs.

“Just a small group, ma’am, and they’ve travelled peacefully this far -- they’re seeking to cross Myrddin. Their messenger is waiting on castle grounds.”

“A small group,” she repeats carefully. “Led by whom?”

“That’s the scary part, ma’am, nobody is sure,” he says. “What should we do?”

“I have to tell Claude. Please, tell Judith to stand by. I don’t want any movement on our end just yet.” 

“Understood, Professor!” he bows again, and closes the door before taking off into nightfall. Byleth locks it, releasing a heavy exhale, pale in the face. Ashe feels emotional whiplash like he can’t believe -- it’s impossible, isn’t it? The prince was put to death. On trial and jailed for years, and summoned for a public beheading, yet...

“Byleth, you don’t think…?” 

She looks incredulous, but there’s a shadow across her face. “It’s hard to believe, but we can’t deny the possibility.”

“What will you tell the messenger?” he frets. “Are we going to let them pass?”

“If they’re not a threat to Alliance civilians, I’m not within reason to deny them. But…”

She takes pause, mulling it over as Ashe bites his lip, remembering -- would it be awful of him to confess, given this news? If this mysterious army is in fact the fallen prince himself, then the tides of war could possibly shift, and not necessarily in their favor. Is it selfish, to make this moment about his feelings? 

Is this how _she_ feels, all the time? 

“Let’s find Claude,” he suggests, and she nods in agreement. She pulls the door open and starts off toward the pond, but turns to pause on the front steps of the dorm.

“Right. But. Ashe…?” 

Heat quickly returns to his cheeks as her gaze settles on him again. “Y-Yes?” 

“What was it that you were going to tell me?”

_I love you_, he doesn’t say. _I love you. I love you. I’ve loved you since I was sixteen, truly, madly, deeply. I would die for you, my Lady. I would do anything you asked of me. I want to be buried at your feet, just like Sir Daniel in Vindel’s roses_ \-- 

“I -- I’ll tell you later,” he blurts out instead, disappointment weighing heavy in his chest. He feels like he’s just lied to her, let her down, but if she’s disenchanted at all, he can’t tell. She just nods again, understanding. 

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready, then,” she says evenly, expression unreadable -- until her lips quiver just slightly to flash him the smallest smile. “Just don’t wait too long, okay?”

His heart swells so immensely he feels it in his gut. “I won’t, I promise, Professor.”

“What happened to calling me by my name?” she needles him, trekking off along the stony path.

“S-Sorry!” he chirps, following her to the terrace. “When you use that authoritative tone, I sort of just…”

“It’s alright. I think it’s cute.”

He stumbles behind her. “Y-You do?”

“I do. Very cute,” she hums, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her smile is so wide he can see her perfect teeth. “You were always so cute, Ashe.”

Is she _trying_ to make his heart pound out of his chest?

“Geez, Professor, I -- "

“Teach! Did you -- ?” The Alliance Leader jogs up the staircase, waving and laughing when he spots Ashe. “ -- hehe, oh, sorry, was I interrupting -- ?”

“N-Nothing! Nothing at all -- ”

“I was just leaving to find you, actually,” Byleth saves them both, straight to business, and thankfully, Claude complies easily. His brows are narrowed, shoulders stiff when he walks on ahead. He must already have heard the gist of it all. 

“Right, well -- walk with me, friends. We have a special guest waiting for us at the gates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of these days, asheleth will NOT be interrupted -- i've somehow adopted this running gag and i'm not proud of how lazy it is, but it's fun to write :')


	9. promise me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone is keeping safe during this trying time -- hopefully this story is doing something to help put you at ease. i'm trying to have more updates more frequently now that i'm working from home indefinitely. please grab a coffee or a tea, put on some comfy clothes, dim the lights, and enjoy. i am thinking of all of you. <3

It’s late.

Not so late that Claude is nodding off, but Byleth can always tell when he’s running low on steam. He’s perched next to the scroll of Fodlan’s map on the wall, legs spread in the chair. He flicks at the tiny flags pinned to different points of interest, his voice trailing off as he teeters between talking to her and thinking out loud. 

“...probably a little too optimistic of me to believe we can persuade these Kingdom remnants to join us, but...as long as we manage to hold our own against the Empire, it doesn’t really matter.”

Byleth straightens up from the slouch she’d sunk into, raising her head. “Claude. Allow me to be transparent with you.” She says it through a long exhale.

“Always, Teach,” he says fondly, nodding. “What’s on your mind?”

She takes a short pause, debates if she even wants to ask when she already knows the answer. “Have we the choice to stay behind?” 

Claude breathes out a laugh. _Remind me that we don’t_, she really means, but he’ll humor her. He’ll brush a hand over his stubble and chew on his lip and act like he has to think about it. Just to make her feel better. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. 

“Sit back on our asses while the Kingdom and Empire destroy each other?” He quirks a brow, flashing his teeth in a smirk. “Believe me, the thought definitely crossed my mind. We don’t know what kind of power this mystery group is hiding, whoever they are...and the fact that they haven’t asked to ally themselves with us is worrying.” 

But their small size prevents them from being an actual threat, he meaningfully neglects to say. She stares back at him, unblinking.

“But on the other hand…”

“Arriving on site first would give us control of the turf,” he explains though he needn’t, spreading his arms in a shrug. “We grab that central hill, secure the ballistics, and shoot our shot. If the Emperor really is leading the charge, then…” (then this is your reminder.) “..this is an opportunity we’d be stupid to miss,” he says instead.

“It’s decided, then.” Her voice wavers. “We intercept at Gronder Field.”

He looks dolefully back at her, an ironic smile spread across his face like he wishes he could have it any other way. Like he’s trying with all his might not to think about the mock battle five years ago, when a prize was all there was at stake and no matter the outcome, they had a feast and merrymaking to look forward to. They had togetherness. They could go back to their lives after whatever happened on that hill and nothing would change. 

(everything’s changed now) (everything’s going to keep changing) 

“We’ll call for a council tomorrow,” he says finally. Byleth is still staring at her hands. He pats a hand on her shoulder and makes for the door. “Everybody needs to be prepared -- we’re in for a hell of a class reunion, Teach.”

* * *

\-- _teeth on his sun kissed skin, Sophia thrusts her hips forward, drawing a deep moan from the needy knight as he tightens his grip on her waist. Harder and harder, she sucks, fingers splayed across his breastplate -- he shoves his thigh between her legs. Quickly, she ruts against him, giggling when he hisses. He must feel the wetness already pooling through her night-dress. Sophia’s hands float south, palming against his_ \--

“Hey,” a bright voice rings in her ear. Byleth startles, whipping her head around so quickly she almost knocks her visitor right upside the head. Ashe, short of breath and a little sweaty, throws up his hands, waving innocently as she sighs, bemused. 

“Little late to be coming to the library,” she remarks, leaning back in her chair. He’s pink in the face, damp hair clinging to his forehead. There’s grass stains on his loungewear -- must have just come from training. “Looking for a bedtime story?”

“You could say that,” he grins, drawing up the seat next to her. He catches the page number she’s paused at in her book, beaming. “I see you’ve got one of your own to read -- oh, you’re almost finished!”

“One chapter left,” she says. “I don’t think I'll finish tonight, though.”

“But you’re so close!” He actually sounds disappointed. “And the ending…”

“I’ll wait until after Gronder -- make it a reward,” she tells him, grinning, but his face has quickly started to crumble. “What’s that look for?”

“What look?” he purses his lips, playing oblivious (and failing). “I don’t have a look -- do I?”

“You just seemed worried for a second.”

His throat works down a swallow as he scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I guess I am.” 

He gives in easily, she remembers. If something bothers him, he never really stays quiet about it for long. He just needs a little prodding. She hesitates, but she reaches for his hand, which he takes eagerly. Squeezing it. She’d almost forgotten how warm he is. 

From the way his eyes spark, she must feel warm too.

“Everyone is, it seems,” she offers. “Many of us have fond memories of Gronder.” 

“And they’re about to be tainted,” he mutters, but quickly amends himself. “Er, forgive me -- that’s not to say that I don’t support your decision! I’m happy to fight for you and Claude -- ” 

“I would never doubt that, Ashe,” she commends him. “But I can tell it’s something else that’s bothering you.”

Ashe’s gaze drifts. His fingers twitch, like he’s unsure if he wants to let go of her hand; as if perhaps he’s overstayed his welcome in the bed of her palm. She moves her thumb along the bump of his wrist, tracing circles there. A shaky breath passes through his lips. 

“I just...I don’t like the thought of meeting another familiar face in battle.” He sounds remarkably young when he confesses this. “What does it say about me, that I would kill my old friends, just because we’re on opposing sides?”

“You were prepared to do exactly this not so long ago, weren’t you?” 

She doesn’t ask him to make him feel bad. She asks because she knows he wasn’t, and he knows he wasn’t (and he knows that she knows). She just wants him to admit it. So he breathes out a laugh, not quite relaxed, but more at ease. 

“I thought I was. Truly, I did. But that was before I....” he wets his mouth, pausing to draw back his hand. He pushes the hair out of his eyes only for it all to fall back in place, shading his brow. He looks curious, eyes alight as though he’s caught himself on something. Byleth sucks on the inner of her cheek, thinking back to the night before -- he clears his throat before going on, “But you protected me from having to do it. There’s no way you can do that for me again.” 

“I wish I could,” she offers. “I wish I could shield you from that pain -- all of you.”

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t talk to you like this,” he apologizes quickly, guilty. “It’s not fair. You didn’t start this war.”

“I didn’t. But I have to end it,” she says firmly, both to him and to herself. “And I need everyone’s help to do so. Yours included.” 

“I won’t let you down, Byleth,” he says earnestly, putting on a smile that only lasts a moment before he looks anxious, almost expectant -- “but...um. If I may ask, would you let me stay close to you?”

He’d asked this of her once before, the night before the suppression of the Western Church. Right before they would confront Lonato. Decidedly, she’d been against bringing him along, but he insisted on accompanying the rest of the class. If they were to face the Lord, he’d wanted to hear for himself why the fighting started, why people were made to suffer. He hadn’t cared much about being in danger himself, but before they’d set out on the mission, he’d tugged on her cloak and blinked up at her with weepy, wide eyes. _Would you let me stay close to you?_

She repeats the promise she’d made to him then. “I won’t let you out of my sight.”

“That’s reassuring to hear,” he says bashfully. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than at your side.”

Byleth makes the smallest whimper of a noise. On page one-hundred-sixty-nine, right before Sir Daniel delivers his monologue, he tells Lady Sophia those exact words. Characteristically, it would be just like Ashe to do this -- mimic his storybook heroes and spill to her the flowery words he’d memorized in his childhood. In all fairness, he’d started to do exactly this just last night. But rationally, she knows he’s probably not doing it on purpose this time, unless he’d actually come here tonight with the intention of seducing her -- which is highly unlikely. 

She thinks. 

(She looks at his petal pink lips as they curl into a grin and thinks a little less). 

“I’ll keep you safe,” she says, in a smaller voice than intended. Crimson flushes up his neck, starting at the hollow of his throat, spreading to the tips of his ears as he chortles, flustered. She feels too warm, hands clammy without something to hold, and the clicking of the cryptic Wheel inside her mind is pricking her ears. She works down a hard swallow, half a mind to bring up where they left off last night, but the other half berates her for being so selfish. He’s scared like the rest of them are, and clearly only seeking comfort -- 

“Could you start tonight?” 

Byleth blinks. He takes his lip between his teeth, fiddling with the hem of his shirt -- he looks like he can hardly believe what he’s just said and wishes for nothing more than to be able to take it back, but her stomach is doing back-flips.

“What do you mean?” she muttered, hoping she doesn’t sound as riled as she feels. Adrenaline is already pumping through her at top speed -- the inflection of his deepening voice murmuring “tonight” plays on a loop in her head. 

“I mean -- sorry, that sounded suggestive,” he apologizes shakily. “I just wondered -- if you would be amenable -- I would feel a lot safer sleeping in your room tonight, if you wouldn’t have a problem with that -- ”

“No,” she blurts out, and quickly amends -- “no, that’s not a problem at all.” 

Ashe looks paralyzed, his too-long lashes fluttering as he struggles to maintain eye contact. “R-Really? Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I need to keep you safe, don’t I?” she flirts, a little bold. 

Unexpectedly, he flirts back, lowering his eyelids. “Well, you did promise me.”

Fuck, okay. If he’s going to drop his voice that low, she can comply. Happily. Byleth makes to stand, jerking her head toward the arch of the doorway. 

“I’ve had enough reading for tonight. Shall we?” 

He nods eagerly, following suit, light on his feet. 

She’ll make good on her promise, then.


	10. prove myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW HELLO i am going thru it this quarantine y'all i am so sorry. i hope everyone is staying safe, life is treating you well, and your worries are minimal -- my heart is with you. <3

Ashe is shivering.

The night air is almost _too_ warm -- or maybe he’s running a fever. He touches a hand to his forehead, uselessly, feeling only the clamminess of his skin under his hair. Just the anxiety. The sudden realization that he asked the former professor to sleep in her room is finally slamming into him like a falling brick. _What am I thinking?_ The last time he’d asked for overnight company had been over a year ago, and he’d gotten so nervous he had to make himself vomit right outside her quarters before mustering up the courage to go inside. He can’t possibly do that now, and not with Byleth -- he’d at least had the luxury of not knowing the chambermaid’s name, before. 

Before, it was just a night, no looming fear hanging overhead and no existential dread. Just a quiet summer evening and pent up frustration, and nothing better to do about it than to ask the flirtatious maid if she’d like to read together. Alone, in her room, after hours. The glint of mischief in her eye sent butterflies whirling in his stomach, and as excited as he had been to spend time with her, he couldn’t help panicking. 

“Are you alright?” she’d asked him then. He had his head ducked into a planter when she’d opened the door. The embarrassment was almost enough to kill him, but some sick part of him almost enjoyed it -- her sweet face going slack with worry struck a chord. She certainly took care of him after that. 

As much as he’d love for Byleth to do the same, he can’t allow her to. Not yet. He’s just not sure how to tell her.

“I’m just going to grab a few things from my room first,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as frazzled as he feels. 

\-- and then she gives him A Look before heading inside. “Of course. I’ll be here.” 

He’s already sweating. He knows that Look, one he’s come to recognize over years of attuning himself to others’ emotions. His mother used to tell him that sometimes, you’ll see the same eyes in different people. It wasn’t until he started falling in love that he would find it to be true. 

Yuri Leclerc was the first to show him. When they were children, playing in the fields past the gardens, right where Lord Rowe said they shouldn’t be, a snake had bitten him. Lucky it wasn’t poison, Ashe remembers. His hand was on Yuri’s thigh and he was so warm. He Looked at him, his face much too close to his. They didn’t kiss, but Ashe remembers that he wanted to. He wishes he had. 

When Dorothea Looked at him ten years later, he remembered it -- the same eyes as Yuri. Not in shape or color, but that same Look. Heavily lidded and deep in color, pupils blown wide -- the same face they would all come to make before the message would come clear: _I want you_. 

Lysithea, Dedue. Ignatz. Sylvain. Rowe’s chambermaid -- 

And now, Byleth, with that same burning intensity he can so easily certify as desire. If the Goddess truly lies within her, he wonders if she could be so merciful as to let her incinerate him with that stare. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be on the receiving end of that Look from her, and he hasn’t yet earned it. How could he be so selfish now, of all nights? 

Ashe groans, gathering up his blankets. He can’t possibly go back on his request now, it would only hurt her feelings. She’d never say so, but it would leave her dispirited, and nobody needs that on a night like this. Disappointing her is inevitable if she’s feeling what he thinks she’s feeling, he doesn’t need to make it worse when she’s been so generous already. He owes her that, at least. With his stomach feeling like it’s been filled with sand, he returns to her room.

“Are you that cold?” she asks when he gets back. He lifts his brows, completely unprepared to play this game.

“Huh?”

She frowns. “All those blankets…”

“Oh, I just wanted to cushion the floor a little bit,” he croaks, unfolding the quilts. 

“The floor?”

His plan is already failing him -- he should have expected as much. “Y-Yes? Where else would I sleep?” 

Disappointment is evident in the lines of her face as her eyes drift away. “Oh. I’d assumed you wanted to share my bed.” She says it with such bluntness that Ashe flinches. Well of course she did, he’d certainly done his part to ensure she would! Stupid, he scolds himself. 

“O-Oh, well I -- I don’t want to invade your space!” He makes up the excuse, fully anticipating her to drop it, but -- 

“There’s plenty of room.” 

She doesn’t sound insistent, just a little confused. Maybe even a little at war with herself, if he’s reading her right. Her ears and cheeks are slightly pink, but her voice is even, retaining that calm, soothing tone as she shuffles pillows around. 

It _is_ a rather big bed. He could easily fit next to her. She draws up the blankets, covering herself up to her chest. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable?”

“I -- toss and turn a lot in my sleep,” he lies. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you!”

She gives up, it seems. She rolls around to extinguish the wavering candle at her bedside. The smoke trickles through the air and Byleth sinks beneath it, resting flat against the mattress with a huff. “Well, if you change your mind.”

“Th-thank you,” he mutters awkwardly, and sinks onto the floor, cocooning himself in his shabby blankets. It’s not very warm, but the rug is plush enough to cushion his back, and the room’s not so dirty that he fears a rat could skitter past his feet during the night. It’s not entirely disagreeable -- he supposes he could fall asleep if he could only get himself to relax enough. He tries to shut his eyes, but then Byleth says something else.

“It’s been a long time since anyone else has slept in here with me.” 

Ashe leans up on his elbows. He turns to look her way, but much of her face isn’t even visible at this angle, never mind the dark. Mostly he just looks at her hair, bushy and wild despite having just been combed through. He can just make out the tip of her nose. 

“When was the last time?” he asks her softly, debating whether or not he truly wants to know. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind until now. Maybe that was inappropriate, asking that question, but she answers without hesitation.

“Before the invasion of the monastery.” 

“Oh,” he breathes, his heart sinking. “That _was_ quite a long time ago. I don’t think anyone stayed in their own rooms that night.”

“Nobody wanted to be alone.”

Sitting up, Ashe pulls his knees to his chest, still trying to make out her face in the shadows. He can’t quite see her, but he knows she’s frowning. 

“Didn’t Sylvain try to come in?”

He tries to cheer her up, and he’s graced with one of her giggles, soft and airy. It pulls a smile out of him. “He argued with Ingrid in my doorway for ages. Dorothea managed to coax him away.”

“They wound up having a slumber party of their own, I think,” Ashe laughs. “Ignatz and I could hardly sleep with all the noise -- not that we would have had an easy time otherwise.”

“It was a difficult night for everyone,” she says, but then she lifts her voice. “Company made it easier, though. I fell asleep between Annette and Mercedes.”

“You slept with her snoring?”

“Mercedes?” 

“No, Annette!” Ashe laughs, reminiscing. “We used to take naps out in the fields, when the weather was nice. Poor Annie, I don’t think she ever realized how loud she is....”

Or was. His voice trails off, the picture of Annette’s smiling face burned behind his eyelids. His chest constricts, realizing he hasn’t even thought about her or Mercedes in...months.

“Do you miss them?” 

Ashe stares up at the ceiling. Echoes of the girls’ giggles worm into his ears as he thinks back on their smiles, the warmth of their embraces. The calming lavender of Mercedes’ handkerchief tucked into his shirt as Annette would feed him something crumbly and over-sweet. "Missing" doesn’t even feel like the right word. 

“I do,” he confesses. “I wasn’t very close to His Highness or his friends, but I cared immensely for those two. And for Dedue.”

“I was fond of them, too,” she says. “Of Mercedes, particularly.”

“That’s not surprising,” Ashe half-laughs, in an effort to dispel the jealousy prickling his heart. Curiously, and against his better judgement, he asks her, “She was courting you, wasn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Byleth says equivocally, “but she was...flirtatious. She had this _way_ about it, though. I’m not sure how to describe it, other than Mercedes just being Mercedes. It didn’t amount to much, obviously, but she was the first woman I ever kissed.”

Ashe scrambles out of his blankets. “What!”

“We had a little fling,” Byleth waves him off, a little embarrassed. “It fizzled out pretty quickly. She turned down my invitation to join the Deer and Hilda and Claude made fun of me for two moons.” 

“I had no idea!” he chortles, feeling a little relieved. He rests his elbows on the edge of her bed, and she turns on her side to watch his face, wrinkling her nose at him.

“You were a little preoccupied with Lysithea at the time, if I recall.”

A blush creeps across his nose. Ashe digs his chin into the down mattress, fixating on a spot on the wall as he remembers his own flustering schoolyard escapade. That too, had been short-lived, nothing more than stolen kisses in shadowy corridors and study sessions that ended in one of two types of tongue-lashing, depending on the mood she was in. Lysithea had insisted upon keeping it a secret, but when you’re in the same class as Hilda, well. No amount of discretion is ever enough.

“I didn’t think you knew about that,” he murmurs.

“I pretended not to,” she grins at him. “Was she your first kiss?” 

His blush deepens, making him thankful for the darkness of the room. It’s not the first time he’s swapped secrets like this with someone else, but there’s something different about divulging them with her. “N-No, it was Dorothea, actually…” 

Byleth blinks her eyes wide, her mouth agape as she leans up on her elbow. “Dorothea? When was this?”

“The night of the ball,” he croaks, his stomach fluttering. 

“Wow, Ashe. I can hardly believe it,” she breathes, moving to rest her head again. She looks so surprised, impressed, even, studying his face with a brand new expression on hers. Like she’s seeing him completely anew. Suddenly he feels a little unstable, almost vulnerable.

“What’s so hard to believe?” He tilts his head. He can play oblivious too. 

“You’re just so…” Innocent, she doesn’t say. For the sake of his ego, he guesses. 

He chews on his lip. He had a feeling. He shouldn’t be so surprised, he’s heard it all his life. “_You look so virginal_”, “_you just seemed too pure for this kind of thing_”, “_but you’re such a sweet boy_”. Sure, his history is incomparable to that of Sylvain’s (who’s would be?), but he can hardly consider himself innocent when he’s got the scars to prove otherwise -- scars that she hasn’t seen, of course. 

( -- so much of him that she hasn’t seen and doesn’t know -- )

“I don’t know. Not the type I knew her to chase.” Oh, that same song of old -- the Types and Manners Thing. It’s the safer way to say it, what they all say before he can show them how wrong they are. He grins at her playfully.

“What type is that?” 

Byleth takes a long pause before replying, narrowing her eyes before taking a deep breath. She seems to be self-aware, like she’s considering her next words very cautiously. Determined about something. 

“Dorothea used to have a taste for trouble, is all.” Her voice is so quiet. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him.

“Who’s to say we didn’t make trouble?” 

( -- so much that he wants to show her -- )

Byleth smirks, exhaling sharply through her nostrils. “So you do have a bit of a bad boy in you.”

Ashe gulps. If she’s playing this game too, he’s not sure he’s winning or losing at this point -- was she underestimating him on purpose? Is this a test? 

His voice starts to crack. “And you’re a -- bit of a tease, aren’t you, Professor?”

He hears the breath catch in her throat. That always does something, that barely-present whine through pouting lips. He’s not sure what about it makes people go weak, but he never tires of watching the flames ignite in their eyes. She looks so beautiful when she wants something. 

“Right now I feel as though _I’m_ the one being teased.”

Ashe can’t help giggling. He bites at his thumb, grinning through his teeth at her. “What makes you say that?” 

She’ll admonish him, but the riled strain in her voice is unmistakable. “Don’t play coy, Ashe, you’re bad at it.”

“Not bad at teasing, though,” he counters, daringly. She chortles, her jaw tensing.

“You sound confident.”

“You sound...frustrated,” he rasps, and she darts her tongue out to wet her lips. 

“Can you blame me?” she starts, pitifully, her brows knit together in a fretful stitch. “The beautiful soldier who asked to spend the night in my room has the gall to sleep on the _floor_ instead of in my bed.”

His stomach lurches, threatening a break in his resolve. “That sounds just awful, Professor. No wonder you’re frustrated. Anything I can do to help?”

Whatever thread that had been holding her together this long must have just snapped, for within half a second of the end of his sentence, Byleth’s face is mere centimeters from his, her breath a testy staccato and her eyes alight with yearning. This close, he can watch the flecks of gold glimmer in the pools of unearthly green in her eyes, her feathered lashes spiking black ice across the shocking colors. He’s always felt a little bit like she could see through him, but this close, he feels completely transparent -- all the inner workings of his heart are on display for her. He dares himself to move, but his muscles have gone rigid, cemented under his skin.

“Come here,” she whispers. Her lips are damn near touching his. He shudders. “Lay with me.” 

Her plea is meek and unassertive in and of itself. But her voice is trembling, her usually stony face wrinkled with anxiety. Her jaw is clenched tight, like her ability to restrain herself is quickly waning -- but it’s not her he’s worried about. 

She lays before him a Holy being, something incorruptible no matter how much desire fuels her, but he is less so. Weak, a hair’s breadth from crumbling -- he wasn’t built to resist temptation. He doesn’t know how he ever could have expected himself to. 

She doesn’t, and that’s obvious -- and she doesn’t want him to. It’s all very simple to her: coax him into breaking down the last wall standing between them, and she will have her affirmation. She knows this isn’t wrong, them being together like this. The timing is horrendous, sure, he’ll give her that -- but this isn’t wrong. Their feelings aren’t wrong. But there’s only one way to make her believe as much.

Ashe lays a tentative hand on hers, steadying himself before shifting his weight to settle in next to her. His heart thrashes violently against his rib cage, as if to escape its confines. If he won’t turn away, it will, and Ashe would be thankful for it, he thinks as he shivers. He's careful to keep enough space between his chest and hers. He pulls on the blankets, covering himself up to his neck and clutching them under his chin. Mercifully, she doesn’t move closer, but her eyes stay fixated on him as she asks him one more thing.

“What were you going to tell me?”

“W-What?”

“The other night,” she whispers again, “You were going to tell me something. What was it?”

She reaches to touch his jaw, impossibly warm hands turning his head to face her. His heart leaps to his throat, his pulse rabbiting beneath her delicate fingers. She must feel it, her cheeks are flushed scarlet, lips pursed in appeal. She wants him to submit so badly, but --

“I can’t.”

She frowns. “Ashe…”

His hand finds hers in the dark, holding it to his cheek as he takes a breath that fills his lungs. “Because I know you want to tell me something, too, and I want to feel like I deserve to hear it.”

She looks ready to protest, and he almost wants to let her -- he wants her to tell him it’s okay, he doesn’t have to be strong. He doesn’t have to prolong it any further, to wait any longer, but.

“I want to fight for you, Byleth,” he promises her. “I want to win. I have to prove myself.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” she insists, but he shakes his head.

“Not to you,” he amends her.

A shadow crosses her face as it seems she understands. She nods, and her fingers twitch in his clutch. He holds on tighter.

"Only then can I tell you in good conscience. Just -- please…”

“Shh," she says to him, her eyes falling closed. "Just stay close to me. Don't be afraid."

He won't be. If she keeps him within sight tomorrow, he won't be. There'll be nothing to fear. He has his love to fight for -- he can't be afraid.

"I promise you," she murmurs. "I promise you'll be safe." 

"I promise I'll tell you, then," he smiles, and she smiles too.


	11. divine pulse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “praying?”
> 
> “sure,” she says. “you could say that.” 
> 
> “the goddess lives in you,” he says plainly, as if she doesn’t already know. “who is it you think is listening?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains graphic violence that may not be suitable for some readers. please stay safe!

Byleth wakes with a start. 

Sunlight seeps through the tears in her shabby curtains, spilling in streaks across the bed. The glow of the morning is a warm contrast to the stagnant chill of her room, inviting and safe. Ironic, seeing that the march will begin within an hour or two. Byleth sighs, laying her head back against her pillow. She can’t remember the dream, but whatever it was, it took the air from her lungs. An omen? She hopes not -- she shifts to her side and to her relief, Ashe is still passed out next to her. 

She’d slept so peacefully, she could have forgotten what today had meant to bring -- no question that his presence had everything to do with it. He’s so warm. His hands are so warm, wrapped around her waist. A move he’d surely done in his sleep. She smiles and cozies in closer to him, careful not to disturb him awake. 

He is so, so beautiful. She brushes the snowy hair across his forehead, sunlight catching strands and streaking them amber. His lashes are so pale and long. His freckles come in abundance, sprinkled in a constellation across his delicate face. There’s a tiny scar along his jawline that she wonders how she’s ever missed. Gingerly, she touches her forefinger to it, wondering what else she’s missed in the years she’d lost. There’s still so many things she wants to ask him. 

In her quiet admiration, this stolen fragment of time, she lies there. Just to behold him, guilt weighing heavy in the stillness of her heart. Maybe she’s been going about this all wrong. She considers waking him, telling him the truth of her feelings before they set foot for Gronder -- but that would mean admittance. Resigning to the fear that he could die. 

She can’t be afraid -- or let it make the choice for her. She doesn’t want to tell him out of fear or paranoia. 

Dorothea once told her that the fear of death could make people do strange things, feel strange things. Knowing you could lose someone suddenly pulls you into wanting them in ways you hadn’t given a second thought to before. Exhaust all possibilities before it's too late.

“Don’t you want to be able to say that you did something?" she'd asked her. "Even if you weren’t sure of your feelings?”

Byleth snorts. She's never unsure. It was something her father used to praise about her -- she always knew what she wanted to do, even if she had trouble saying it. 

She loves Ashe. She's known since the reunion. She’s wanted to tell him since Aillel, but -- 

“Morning already?”

The grovel of his just-awake voice softens her, melting her to a puddle in the dip of the worn bed. Ashe yawns, arching into a stretch, eyes widening as he realizes where his hand had wandered during the night. Byleth smiles.

“I’m afraid so.” 

His face goes pink already, lips pressed together into a bashful line. Ashe clears his throat, averting her eyes. “We should probably start preparing then, huh?”

“Just a moment,” she says quietly, reaching to touch his hair. He lays still, locking eyes with her as she tucks the fly-aways behind his ear. His breathing stutters a little. 

“B-Byleth?”

“Give me just a moment,” she says again, in an honest plea. She cups his face, watching the rings of green around his pupils shrink as she presses her body closer against him, swinging a leg around his hip. He won’t let her say it with words, and that’s fine. There are ways she can tell him without them. 

He squirms, hugging himself, probably to avoid holding onto her, but she can already feel his rapidly hardening length pressed against her pelvis. Whatever sense of duty he feels he must protect, his body fights to dispute it. He’s trembling, closing his eyes and breathing hard. Byleth clings to his waist, hands floating to his hip and when she rests them there, they jerk forward. Oh, Ashe. She wants to tell him he doesn’t have to fight it, wants to kiss him hard and fast and messily like the desperate teens she wishes they could be again, but this is enough, for now. It’s going to have to be. If she’s going to protect him, protect everyone, she can’t get too distracted.

Badly as she wants to press her lips against his, she settles for his neck, planting a hot kiss at the juncture of his jawbone. The moan that escapes his throat is mesmerizing as she moves her hips against him, already feeling wet heat flaring between her thighs. Her face is burning hot, sweaty against his throat. She mouths at him, sucking his sensitive flesh, feeling his heart beating a frantic rhythm against her breasts despite the barrier of his arms. Ashe sighs and gasps, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. She bucks into him, the outline of his cock pressed against her. She gulps. He feels big, big enough to stretch her to fill. It makes her throb. 

It’s getting too hot to be under the blankets, but she doesn’t throw them off. She likes the slick of his sweat mixed with hers, likes watching his pulse thump in the shallow of his neck between bites. She digs her nails into his side and thrusts harder against him, already so close. He finally, finally moves his arms to clutch her and she groans in delight, savoring the tightness of his muscles, the flex of his biceps. She marvels at his bulging arms. His body is so compact, sinewy in perfect places. She aches to see more of it, all of it. 

She’d better keep her promise if that’s what she wants. 

Ashe stutters through a groan, gasping and scratching at her shoulders -- his dick is pulsing against her, the thin layers of fabric between them soaking wet. He must be close, shivering and twitching and chewing on his lip. Byleth tentatively moves her hand between their hips, pulling off his neck to watch his eyes as she strokes him through his small-clothes, steady, up-and-down. 

He lets out a deep, guttural noise, panting like a wounded dog. His sweaty forehead rests against hers and it takes the little self-control she’s left clinging onto to keep from kissing him. Breathing heavily against his face, Byleth blinks slowly, her head swimming as she bucks into her hand and his hips. They shudder together, their mismatched thrusts and quivering moans drowned out by the chirping of hungry birds outside her window. The sunlight is blazing brighter, the reality of morning creeping upon them as the crest of their shared climax draws nearer. There’s a white-hot rush of blood, a burst of something low in her gut -- 

Ashe holds his breath, his jaw tensing as he holds her gaze, brow furrowed. She feels his cock jump, a spread of hot wetness flooding beneath her hand. The hammering of his heartbeat reverberates against her chest, and she holds him tight, like she can’t get close enough. She feels sticky, soaked between the legs, riding out the wave with the steady rocking of her hips into his. His eyes have fallen shut, pink mouth open as he fights to even out his breathing. Byleth holds him, hair matted to his skin, quietly fixating on feeling the _ba-thump ba-thump_ next to her breasts. It’s hypnotic, alluring in some obscure, possibly overtly romantic way -- a musical reminder that he's alive, his body singing to her. She's obsessed with feeling it so close to her. She doesn’t care how sweltering it is, she could lay like this forever. 

And they do, at least, it will seem so. Byleth actually has no idea how long they lay like that, limbs entangled, breathing each other’s air. She doesn't know how the blankets have come off of them, but she’s thankful for the sight it reveals -- the dark splotch on Ashe’s shorts, his thighs glistening with sweat and fluids, a mix of his own and hers. He stretches his legs and his toned stomach is pulled taut, his nipples still hardened. The bulge of his cock is tempting enough for her to want to sit atop it, but there’s no time left to be stolen. She’s already stolen enough. Ashe breathes and the lacing of his lounge shirt loosens. 

“Think there’s still breakfast?” he says sprightly, smiling obliviously, as though nothing had just happened. It’s a mercy, she thinks. It’s better this way. She smiles too, in spite of herself. In spite of her fear and her guilt. 

“Depends if Raphael is awake yet.”

“We should get ready, then,” he tells her. He slides off her bed, gathering his blankets off the floor. He makes for the door, off to wash up in his own room. Byleth goes to the dining hall alone.

***

The fog is blinding. 

If not for the midnight blue of the infantry’s banners, she’d have no way of telling the sky from the earth beneath her, damp and frosted over from a harsh winter. Thick and muggy, the air becomes harder to swallow the closer they get to the field. Byleth can smell the smoke already. The fires of war have already fanned to life, screams already echoing across the plains. Ahead of her a little ways, Claude swoops to the ground, rearing his wyvern to steady on approach. The Imperial army is close, as are the mysterious nomads from the Kingdom.

“Ugh, how are we supposed to fight in this kinda fog?” Hilda bleats, squinting. “I can’t even see two feet in front of me!”

“Our enemies are subject to the same conditions,” Claude reminds her gently, tossing her a glance from over his shoulder. 

“Let’s stay calm,” Byleth nods. Her troop of former students trot together in a cluster, faithful steeds and other beasts whining and wailing. Marianne tries to soothe them to no avail, shushing them and whispering nonsensical words of comfort as they draw nearer to the edge of the forest. Upon narrowing her eyes, Byleth can spot the central hill a few yards ahead -- and the piles of fallen soldiers littering it.

“Seems they’ve started the festivities without us,” Judith remarks grimly, striding up next to Claude. He frowns at her, looking between her and Byleth before trotting to the only soldier he can find still breathing. Judith holds her hands up to signal a halt, and their troop stutters -- Byleth reaches for Ashe’s hand, and to her relief, he takes it.

“P-Prince Dimitri,” the fallen Alliance sniper struggles to say. Claude shushes him, pushing the matted, muddy hair from his face. “He’s alive. He’s here.”

“His Highness _is_ alive?” Ashe croaks. 

“M-My Lord,” the sniper addresses Claude, who shakes his head, shushing him again. 

“Don’t speak, that’s enough now,” he comforts him, but Byleth can see the creases under his eyes. He raises his head, waving to beckon Marianne, who comes rushing. 

“Heal him, do whatever you can,” he tells her, and she drops to her knees, cradling the man’s bloody head. “As far as class reunions go...this one’s gotta be the worst in history.” 

“Claude,” Ashe says darkly, looking past the hill. “I think that's him…”

Byleth narrows her gaze, following his eyes until they reach the point of his fixation. Through some manner of divine intervention, or maybe her own force of will, the fog thins out enough for her to see him. 

Swathed in furs and caked in blood, the Prince of Faerghus looms over the burning corpses of his men like a pallbearer, the forest of trees behind him bowing in funeral procession. The comely princeling of years ago is lost, delicate golden hair filthy with rainwater and muck, one of his striking blue eyes presumably gone, covered by a thick patch. Areadbhar is swung over his massive shoulder, dripping in dark blood, the innards of his enemies hanging from its jagged contours. With a wild cry, he bares his canines, seemingly transfixed on Edelgard’s vision in the distance.

“He doesn’t look interested in joining forces with us,” Claude laments, visibly shaken. His brows string together in a tight knit as he waves his hand, signaling the others to hold fire, stand down. “If we steer clear of his troops, we probably won’t need to engage him -- ”

Blasts of unholy fires explode at the Kingdom’s edge of the field, aggravating and riling the standing soldiers as the prince commands the charge -- 

“Kill every last one of them.” 

Claude looks sharply at Byleth and the rest of the Deer. “Eyes up. Stay sharp. And Teach?”

She nods to him. 

“We need your guidance now more than ever,” he tells her, almost pleading. “Do whatever it takes to lead us to victory.”

The Sword of the Creator snaps to formation, glowing in her readied grasp. 

“Whatever it takes,” she repeats, nodding to Ashe. He pulls the first arrow from his quiver, the bells of his garb chiming and ringing as he moves swiftly behind her. On Claude’s signal, the Deer charge forth in a stampede for the central hill, and Byleth swears she can hear Edelgard’s lament over the chaos of warfare: 

“And so we fight on.” 

Claude takes flight, his faction following his trail to the thicket where Edelgard has stationed her cavalry whilst Byleth leads a small, powerful group up the slope. Taking on two armies at once is an ambitious, risky strategy, but it worked for them five years ago -- for old time’s sake, Byleth agreed they should try it again. Seteth soars ahead of her, his wyvern screaming as the flock of his pegasi battalion follow him to take out the group stationed at the ballista. Bernadetta von Varley is manning it. 

“Bernadetta,” she hears Ignatz keening behind her.

“Stay focused,” Byleth implores him, and Ashe puts a hand on his shoulder.

“If we get closer, it would be a clean shot,” he says morbidly, and Byleth squeezes her eyes shut. “A quicker way to fall than to a spear.” 

Ignatz makes some small noise in hesitation, but jumps ahead of him, up until they’re both a safe distance away. They ready their sharpest arrows, hiding behind the thick brush of forest -- either one of them can shoot a clean dead-eye from here. Bernadetta won’t even realize. Byleth runs to strike the armored knights charging for the hill -- she doesn’t hear her scream. 

Ignatz secures the ballista, guarded by a roaring Raphael, and Ashe comes running to Byleth’s side, tears swimming in his eyes. This day extracts a heavy toll already, and the battle has only just begun. 

The Kingdom army, though small in size, comes at them full force, raging blindly and brandishing the rusted relics of their fallen heroes. Byleth strikes them down with merciful swiftness with Ashe close behind, firing arrows and prancing on his feet to invigorate their downtrodden comrades. They take out nameless soldiers one by one, and their machinations move forward without a hitch until the whinny of Sylvain’s dark horse pierces her ears.

“Byleth, look out -- ” Ashe throws her aside, both of them narrowly missing the plunge of the Lance of Ruin. They fall in a heap in a bed of crushed lilies, staring upward at their dear, tired old friend. 

“Professor? Is that really you?” Sylvain breathes, reigning in his steed. Byleth rises to her feet, the reflection of her strained expression glinting in the shine of his dark armor. Rugged and wrinkled under the eyes, Sylvain smiles at her, handsome as ever, though there’s heartbreak in his gaze. It’s clear he hadn’t thought he’d ever cross her path again. He looks both delighted and horrified to see her.

“You're as beautiful as I remember,” he breathes, drawing back the lance. Ashe is shivering violently, slowly reaching for an arrow, but he won’t grasp it -- 

“Sylvain,” Byleth addresses him, lowering her blade. Tears are hot, blooming in the corners of her eyes. “We don’t have to do this, you can come with me -- ”

“Professor, I -- ”

“WAIT -- ”

A shooting arrow knocks him clear off his horse -- Sylvain falls to the cold earth with a hard thud. Byleth screams, doubling over, trying desperately to see who it was that shot him down, lost under the cacophony of steel and iron exploding at her side. Felix lunges for Ashe, wild with rage, eyes burning with vengeance. Byleth pounces, striking him across the back with the Sword of the Creator, but it hasn’t stopped him from driving his Wo Dao between Ashe’s ribs. 

Behind her, she hears the familiar cry of Dorte, Marianne’s loyal mare -- 

“MARIANNE!” 

The holy knight drives forward, hyper-focused on their fallen dancer as Byleth corners Felix into the thicket -- 

“You’re going to die for that,” he spits at her, his voice poisonous. He squats in a readied stance, he could fly forward at any second, but Byleth stands her ground, unmoving as he circles her like a vulture.

“He didn’t kill him,” she argues with him uselessly, sweaty palms clutching the hilt of her sword. “Ashe and I could have saved him, I could have -- ”

“If you kept your mouth shut he’d still be alive,” he barks, “You killed him, you killed him -- ”

Felix leaps and freezes as the hands of time shatter the clock of the universe. Hovering in suspension, Byleth can see all the bruises and mars on his war-torn face. She breathes out, wet tears cooling on her cheeks as Divine Pulse takes her back to Sylvain, back to her attempt at sparing him.

He would fall, just like before. She can see Petra crouching near the hill behind him -- the arrow had come from her. Felix is upon them again, and Byleth swings back Time again. The redheaded paladin is smiling at her, and he looks so, so sad.

“Professor, I -- ”

He falls a third time. It was Petra again. Ingrid sweeps in this time. Ashe is impaled from behind. Divine Pulse. 

Sylvain falls. Petra is nowhere to be found. A cluster of black mages strike at them, but they don’t stop Felix from charging in to strike at Ashe -- he dodges this time, readying his mini-bow to counter, but Ingrid has swept in again. Ashe is impaled a second time. 

Divine Pulse. Sylvain’s eyes are so sad. Byleth goes back farther and Bernadetta dies again, alone on the hill, cruelly close to her home. 

She still tries to talk to Sylvain. 

“Professor, I -- ”

Byleth finds Felix before his body hits the ground. With an agonized shriek, she lets Ashe out of her sight for the split second it takes to gut the Fraldarius boy from sternum to navel. Felix sputters, choking out blood before dropping dead. 

Ingrid’s pegasus screeches overhead. Ignatz’s arrow strikes her in the throat before she can get within five feet of Ashe. He’s a sobbing mess behind her, but he’s safe. At cruel cost, Fate has kept him safe -- _she_ has kept him safe. She frantically looks around for Sylvain, hoping with all her might she might be able to save him too.

“Sylvain, Sylvain,” she mutters to him, kneeling at his side. He coughs and gasps, a pool of blood beneath his head. He reaches for her hand. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, trying to smirk. “Don’t -- ‘s not worth it -- ”

“Don’t say that,” she struggles, cradling his head. 

“Keep them away,” he begs her, rasping. “From Dimitri. And Dedue. They’re not -- themselves, anymore. Lost their minds -- ”

“Shh, hush now, hush, Sylvain,” she begs him. “I’ll help you -- ”

But he shakes his head. Her soldiers and his are screaming around them. The fires of spellcasters spark and burst and knock down trees behind them, setting the thicket aflame.

“You can’t,” he says, grinning in that sad, melancholy way he’d always used to, “‘s too late.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says honestly, tears falling into his bleary eyes. His jaw is going slack, eyes falling closed as his grip on her hand goes limp.

“Don’t be,” he says, “I made -- my choice -- ”

Horrified screams explode over her shoulder -- Byleth leaps to her feet, swinging her sword back to formation as she frantically looks around. Ashe -- Ashe -- where is Ashe -- she’d let him out of her sight again --

“Ashe!” she calls him for hoarsely, running for the southern steep of the central hill, tripping over flailing, dying bodies -- 

“Edelgard!”

Whipping around, Byleth slashes the air -- sparks flying as her sword clashes with Areadbhar, the fallen prince’s eye trained on her paling face. 

“Dimitri,” she says breathlessly, unblinking. She strains against his hold, heels digging into the mud as he forces her backward. He growls, wolfish stare boring holes into her before a curious, odd glimmer flickers in his eye. Something in the lines of his cold face soften as it seems he starts to recognize who she is.

“Professor…?” 

“Dimitri,” she says again, foolishly lowering her blade -- she lets a smile stretch across her face as she holds out her hand, reaching for him openly, and for an ethereal moment she thinks he’s about to do the same -- until the edge of his family heirloom is less than an inch from her throat.

“You’re...in my way,” he barks, but before he can lunge forward, an arrow strikes him in the back of his knee. The prince falls with a grating howl, snarling in pain, and Ashe is sprinting toward them, jewelry glittering in the golden sunlight like a beacon. Byleth is ready to make a run for it, to leap into his arms, but a towering figure emerges from behind him -- the shadow of a heavy axe --

“ASHE -- !”

The clock shatters again. Byleth winds back the hands of time, staring down at the ridges of Areadbhar. Dimitri crumbles to his knees with a brooding roar. Ashe is almost within her reach, but --

It’s Dedue who strikes him. 

Time trickles backward. Ashe fires at the prince with an impeccable shot. Dedue’s hammer thunders down. Divine Pulse. 

Ashe’s scream is horrific, garbled by the blood spurting from his neck. Dedue almost takes his head off. 

Divine Pulse.

Dimitri stabs her this time. Ashe goes for his throat with a knife. Dedue spears him. 

She screams for Sothis, but Sothis isn’t here anymore. 

(You _are_ Sothis.)

The Goddess is gone --

(You _are_ the Goddess -- )

“Sothis, where are you?” she asks the Void.

(She lives in You.) 

Time trickles backward. 

_If you can’t change it, it’s Fate._

“I am the Goddess, I AM Fate -- ”

_The Goddess is Life, Love, and Time, but she is not Fate. Fate is cruel. _

_The Goddess is Foil to that cruelty.___

“I can win." 

_You can’t._

“I can -- ” 

_You can’t save him._

“Yes I can." 

Divine Pulse shatters Time again. 

“Edelgard, where are you…” the prince sputters. He’s on his knees. Byleth charges past him. She’s running, running, and Ashe is coming to her. She only turned on him for a moment, it had only been a moment -- 

Dedue strikes him again, enraged. It’s a heavy blow to Ashe’s back. Blood spurts through the air. Byleth charges for him, the Sword of the Creator breaking into a fiendish whip. With a loud crack, the blood of the prince’s right hand man sprays the green earth beneath them. He has no choice but to retreat. He disappears with his Highness, and Byleth falls to Ashe’s side. 

Her spirit is fading. She can’t hear the clicking of the hands of Time. Sothis is gone. She can’t turn back. Ashe is limp on the ground, his green eyes soulless. Blood trickles from the corners of his mouth. 

She broke her promise. This is Fate. 

“LYSITHEA!” Byleth screams. In a blur of stark white and lilac, the warlock girl comes rushing, gasping like she’s never heard before. 

“Warp him to safety.” She can barely speak. Lysithea obeys her immediately. They’re gone in a flash of light. Byleth crumbles, clawing at the dirt. 

She failed him. She promised, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight -- and she failed him. Miserably. She couldn’t protect him. She, the Goddess, couldn’t protect the man she loves. Is this truly what must become of them? Is there nothing else? 

ylvain, Felix, Ingrid -- gone. Dead. She failed them, all of them -- killed them. To protect him, she made a sacrifice. A choice. Is this what Edelgard meant when she talked about sacrifice? Is this the price? Does it hurt her this badly? 

This can’t be Fate, can it? 

“Teach! There you are!” the ring of Claude’s joyous voice sounds so far away. The gust of air from the beat of his wyvern’s wings blows through her hair. “Teach, the Emperor has retreated -- it’s a victory!” 

Byleth’s knees ache. She’s hunched over, fingers sunk into the dirt. A victory? This? 

“Teach…?” 

The warmth of his hand consumes her as she tears her eyes from the scorched earth beneath her palms. Claude’s face is the last thing she sees as the world around her spins to blinding white. 

***

She remembers the night her father died. 

They stayed with her -- the Golden Deer. The lot of them, all eleven students, crammed into her quarters. As poorly as her memory serves her, she remembers that night clear as crystal. She can picture them in her head, dressed down in their lounge clothes and night caps and somehow so much smaller than they are today. 

“Stay.” She remembers begging Claude. Her eyes were glassy, bright and glimmering with the threat of fresh tears. Her pleading gaze flitted between the rest of their paling, worried faces as she breathed in short, quivering gasps. “Stay with me.” 

Claude hadn’t waited for a “please,” didn’t look to anyone else for permission. He gave her a warm, gentle smile, moving closer to her with his arms outstretched. She stayed seated at the foot of her bed, eyes on him as she took his hands. Laced her fingers with his. Bowing her head, she inhaled sharply -- her shoulders stiffened, rigid. Even in the seclusion of her quarters, she’d still tried to hold back. Claude didn’t want her to, but didn’t know how to tell her -- and then Marianne’s gentle voice cut through the silence. 

“Professor, it’s okay. It’s only us. You can cry.” 

Byleth looked up, looked at her for only a breath of a second before the floodgates burst open. It’d been like opening a cabinet full of fine china, and all the plates carelessly stacked inside had come crashing down. She remembers feeling her face crumble, contort in such a way that Claude must have worried she’d transform -- and then she cried. Cried, like none of them had ever heard a person cry before. Harrowed, alarming, almost unbearable to listen to. She’d had no idea she’d been capable of such a noise. 

Lorenz and Hilda exchanged uneasy glances. At that time, neither of them had ever seen someone in such a state. Ignatz and Raphael moved in closer, instinctual brotherly habits kicking in -- of course their immediate reaction would be to console. Raphael climbed behind her on the bed, holding her by the shoulders, and Ignatz sat right beside her, leaning on her and rubbing the length of her arm. She pulled Claude closer and he’d edged up to let her bury her face in his shirt. She’d soaked it through. Lysithea and Flayn curled up at her feet, clinging to her shins. Dorothea held her other side, cooing a soothing lullaby into the shell of her ear. 

And Ashe -- Ashe was leaned up against Claude, fingers outstretched to stroke her hair, pushing it across her forehead and behind her ears. Such a small gesture had been the one that touched her the most. 

Five years later, it’s the only one that’s absent. 

When the fires are put out and the wounded are treated, their troops set up camp along the Airmid River, just before nightfall. Dinner is a humble feast of fish and Oghma meat, and the Alliance shares a quiet toast to their fallen. They’ve won the day, but nobody is celebrating. Byleth retreats to her tent without anything to eat, and of course Claude follows -- which means, of course, that the rest of them would follow him. 

“This tent’s a lot smaller than my dormitory,” she chokes on a sob. 

Claude pins the flaps of her tent open, smiling tenderly at her as he crawls inside the minimal space to wrap his arms around her. She melts into his embrace instantaneously, burying her face in his neck. 

Nobody says anything. Nobody needs to -- they settle on the ground, cuddled together in a heap like baby fawns. Sitting in each other’s laps, arms and legs entwined, dirty and tired and messy. Hilda’s been crying since Dimitri’s body was carried off, dark makeup smeared across her rounded cheeks. Lysithea can’t stop sniffling. Leonie cradles her just like she used to, leaning against Lorenz’s broad chest. He strokes her hair. Raphael holds onto Marianne, who whispers prayers against the golden olive strands of Ignatz’s hair, their hands clasped together. Dorothea clutches at the back of Claude’s shirt, singing an old Derdriu folk song he’d taught her back in their early days at the monastery. 

“...come and follow me, I will bring you home, I love you and you are mine…” 

Byleth claws at his shoulders. He presses his lips to the top of her head, gripping her tightly, as if she’d disappear if he didn’t. She clings to him like an anchor to the world, tears burning hot, throat swollen. She can feel his exhaustion, how bone-tired he is in the tremble of his grasp, but he won’t let her go. They stay like that, just like that, bodies mashed together on a humble bed of straw and sticks and torn quilts, all night. She’ll eventually cry herself to sleep, waking only to the hollow feeling of her tears being spent. 

Claude is still near her when she wakes, passed out in the corner of her tent with Dorothea collapsed on top of him. She must not have been asleep for long, eyeing the crackle of the dying bonfire just outside her open tent. Her friends are still laying there, sleeping in huddled messes, clutching each other even in rest. She treads carefully so as not to wake them. 

The night air is dense, warm like a blanket around her as she searches the tents, panic coursing through her. She must look a bit crazy, peeking in through every flap, but she must find him. She knows they didn’t just leave him on the field -- he was still breathing, she’s sure. She knows he was. She pokes her head through the red medical tent, and tucked into the corner, nestled in burlap, she finds a sleeping body she’s sure must be Ashe’s. 

Stark relief crosses her face as she breathes out a heavy sigh, tears spilling down the slope of her nose. She reaches for him, grabbing his hands to hold in hers, kissing his knuckles. His face is untarnished, washed of scrapes and blemishes, but his neck is wrapped up in bandages. She doesn’t uncover him to find out if there’s more. He lies completely still, eerily so. Byleth touches a hand to his cheek -- he doesn’t feel cold, not in the way the dead feel. 

Leaning forward, she presses an ear to his chest, straining to listen for his heart, for his breathing -- and hears nothing. Her lungs empty of air. Pressing her thumb to the inside of his wrist, she waits to feel the beat of his pulse. She grips him so tightly, it might just be her own that she feels. Byleth chews her lip, anxiety spiking -- she can’t have lost him. He must be alive. Why else would they have brought him to camp? 

She crawls just outside the tent, pinning it open to keep her eyes on Ashe, watching him, looking out for any sign of life. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she folds her arms over them, clasping her hands together. Lips crushed against her knuckles, she thinks of the girl who once lived inside her head, wishing with all her might that she could talk to her again. 

“Sothis…” 

The voice that calls out to her is one she hadn’t asked for. 

“Praying?” 

Byleth gasps, whipping her head around to meet the chilly gaze of Rhea’s advisor. Oh. Of course Seteth is awake. She hadn’t noticed the fire at the other end of camp. He must have been keeping watch. She glances aside, resting her forehead against her folded hands. 

“Sure,” she says. “You could say that.” 

“The Goddess lives in you,” he says plainly, as if she doesn’t already know. “Who is it you think is listening?” 

She purses her lips, eyes downcast. “She lives within me, and yet she’s never felt farther away.” 

Seteth frowns, his already sad eyes darkening as he draws closer to her. “What troubles you?” 

Byleth bites back tears, willing herself to hold it together, at least in front of Seteth -- but it’s too difficult now, after a day like today. Even on a day like today, Seteth _would_ ask that question. The bristle of his timbre offends her in a way it’s never had before. She tries to remember he doesn’t mean anything by it. 

“He’s dying, isn’t he?” She glances back at Ashe’s still form. 

Seteth pinches his temple, releasing a sharp breath through his nostrils. 

“Manuela did everything she could,” he says, barely above a whisper. Globs of tears flood down Byleth’s face in a river, falling hard down her shirtfront. “She’s not sure he’ll make it past sunrise.” 

She shakes her head, lips quivering. “I can’t lose him, Seteth.” 

Mouth parted, Seteth looks upon her as though he wants very much to say something. It rests on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. Byleth weeps, quietly, uncertain if she’d rather him leave her be, but when he moves to stand, she reaches for his arm. She pulls him to sit next with her, leaning against his side. Seteth stiffens, but allows her to slip her hand under his arm. 

They don’t talk about his wife, or the people they’d lost today -- the people they’d killed. People they loved. They don’t talk at all, until Seteth shifts to rise on his feet. 

“You should rest,” he suggests, gentle but stern. “We’ll be riding at dawn.” 

“I’m staying,” she tells him. “I’m staying with him, in case he wakes.” 

Seteth makes a throaty noise, likely in place of saying something that could possibly upset her. With a short nod, he bids her a silent goodnight, and disappears into the shadows, and the wavering campfire silhouettes around his figure. Byleth crawls into the medical tent, gathering her cloak to rest her head upon, and lays next to Ashe. Wrapping an arm about his waist, she rests her head on his shoulder. 

“I failed you,” she chokes out, her vision blurred with tears. “I broke my promise. I'm so sorry...” 

Byleth cries quietly, sniffles punctuating her thoughts as she croaks. She knows he can’t hear her, but she feels she has to tell him just in case. Resting her hand upon his chest, she focuses a wavelength of white magic. Uselessly, probably -- Manuela must have spent hours doing exactly this, to no avail -- but she wants to try. She has to say that she tried. 

“You were so brave today,” she whimpers. “I was supposed to protect you, but it was you, looking out for me. You saved me.” 

Ashe’s lips are so pale. She stares at them, willing them to part for a breath. She shudders a wracking sob, the light of her restoration magic flickering like a candle in the wind. 

“You saved me, Ashe,” she says again. “Dimitri...he would have taken my head off if not for you. You subdued him without hesitation. I -- I am so proud of you.” 

She doesn’t know how long she lies there with him, crying. She doesn’t understand how the tears keep coming. Maybe they aren’t anymore, and she’s just wailing out dryly, having wrung her body of its water ounce by ounce. Maybe she deserves this pain. The others would dispute it to no end, but she believes it. 

She’d been stupid, so stupid, to think she could avoid this. To think that it would come to any other end. The choices she’d made, the chances she’d taken -- they’ve all led to this. Fate turned its gaze upon her and watched her kill. Watched her sin. 

This must be her punishment. 

Sylvain. Felix. Ingrid. Dimitri. Edelgard, too. 

All of them are dead, or will be soon, all because of her. Everything is her fault. She doesn’t deserve to love him. 

But he deserves to _live_. Byleth clutches him, magic waning, the sigil breaking off in fragments as she struggles to keep focused. Ashe deserves to live more than anything. She has to keep trying. She loves him too much to just let him go. She loves him _too much_. 

“I was so stupid,” she blubbers. “I was reckless. I thought I could protect you better, protect everyone -- if I didn’t say anything. But look what our secret did to us?” 

Restoration glows brighter as she focuses harder, concentrating. The sparkling air of the sigil takes a clearer shape. 

“I should have told you in Aillel,” she mutters. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I should have told you..." 

Byleth shuts her eyes. She lifts her head, watching the shimmering lights of magic dance across his porcelain cheeks. Timidly, she leans in close, and gently, delicately, presses her lips against his mouth, whispering -- 

“I love you.” 

The tent is swallowed in a pillar of light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY the cat's finally, finally outta the bag! let's get this show on the road!


	12. to be without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “there’s someone back there who wants to tell you something. something very important. and if you follow me, you will never get to hear what she has to say."

Ashe is asleep for a long time.

For what feels like a long time, anyway. He’s not quite sure. He doesn’t know how it is that he'd fallen asleep in the first place. He remembers being on the field, bow pulled taut, and suddenly feeling a sharpened edge tearing through his back. It struck him down so quickly he couldn’t even register the pain of the blow. Everything had gone white. 

It feels like a lifetime later that he stirs. His lashes flutter feebly in a struggle to open, take in his surroundings. The smoke and screams are gone, the filth of eroded earth completely absent. There’s a chill at his back like he’s been laying atop an iceberg, or in a frozen lake. Slowly, he gathers the strength to push himself up, leaning on his elbows. He almost doesn’t believe what he sees. 

He thinks he knows this place -- tall pillars of stone, an uneven staircase leading to a crooked archway. The bookcase that changed his life is less than a foot from his reach. The modest architecture is unmistakable, but there’s no way it could be... 

“So soon, my boy?” 

A weighted knot balls up in his throat. Up ahead in the distance, there’s a shimmering light -- a voice he remembers belonging to someone so very dear to him. One he hadn’t thought he would ever hear again. 

“Lonato,” he murmurs to himself, tears blooming in the corners of his eyes. He stumbles to his feet, squinting through the haze of cloudy fog cocooning around him. The loud clacking of heavy footfalls down a marble hall pierces his ears as a figure takes shape before him, wrinkled and battle-worn, framed by a cascade of stormy silver hair. “Lonato!”

The Lord of Castle Gaspard strides toward him, arms reaching out to pull him into a tender embrace, and Ashe quickly crumbles against his adoptive father. He’s warm, but something about him feels hollow, like his weight is carried in feathers rather than flesh. He feels light in his grasp, like if he doesn’t hang on, he could float away. So much smaller than he remembers. He has to bend forward to look into his eyes.

“My, my,” the old man marvels at him, stroking his hair. “My boy. Look how you’ve grown.”

“Lonato,” Ashe starts to cry. “Is it really you?”

There’s something empty in the way that he smiles up at him. Like he knows some horrible secret, but will spare him the torture of speaking it aloud. His crooked teeth peek out of the scraggle of his snowy beard when his lips curl. “I am whoever you need me to be, my son.” 

If he’s really sleeping, and this is just a dream, he decides very quickly that he doesn’t care. He grabs onto his knobby hands. 

He whimpers, speaking slowly. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He looks him over with a familiar fondness, cupping his face before tugging on his wrist. “Come to me, my boy. Walk with me.”

He does. With tentative steps, Ashe follows him straight on toward the staircase in the thick, consuming fog. There are glowing lights ahead, but he can’t make out their source -- they look to be neither lanterns nor torches, but made up entirely of magic, perhaps something not of the world. _Are_ they in the world, still? 

“Where are we, Papa?” 

“That’s just like you to ask,” he remarks, a twinkle in his eye. “Where does it seem we are?”

“Well...it’s not quite right, but it looks like Castle Gaspard,” he tells him, and then amends, somberly, “Like home.” 

Lonato coughs out a laugh. “Much cleaner, I would hope.”

He would laugh along, but panic is surging through him too quickly to allow it. “Papa...am I dead? Is that how I got here?”

“Well, no, not really,” he answers vaguely, shrugging. “At least, not yet.”

“What do you mean?” he asks fearfully -- Lonato faces him, bushy eyebrows raised.

“I mean that you have a choice, my boy.” 

Ashe stops in his tracks. “A choice?” 

“Indeed. You see Ashe, there’s a plan in motion, set by Fate itself,” he explains, in the same mild manner that he’d possessed in life. “A plan for this war. But today, it’s been disrupted in such a way that now, you have been allowed to decide your next move.” 

“I don’t understand, my next move...where?” He fumbles. He believes he might know what he means, but still needs to hear him explain it. 

“On.” He says it with such a finality that Ashe trembles. “If you so choose. You say that this is our house...then that means your brother is here too, just beyond that archway.”

“Christophe?” he barely breathes.

“You can move through it, see him again,” he tells him, and pauses, poignantly. “Or…”

Ashe swallows. “Or I could go back.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Even more poignant. _Back_. Back to the nightmare of war, to the cold, dark earth, to the stench of burning bodies and the cries of abandoned children. Back where the sight of the rising sun is never guaranteed, always uncertain, and no one is sure what Fodlan will look like once it’s over. 

But Ashe isn’t thinking about that. Instead, he wants to know something else. 

“Lonato, are my parents here too?” It’s a juvenile question, the answer to which he knows will break his heart. Lonato bows his head.

“Yes.”

Ashe lip quivers. “But I can’t see them, can I?”

“See them?” He almost chuckles. “No, my boy -- I’m afraid not. Not unless you want to take my hand.”

“And if I do, there’s no going back,” he thinks aloud, the wisps of clouds thinning at the top of the staircase. The archway seems to beckon to him, call him closer. 

“That’s right, but.” 

Lonato’s smile melts away, his hand loosens in his son’s. “There’s someone Back There who wants to tell you something. Something very important. And if you follow me, you will never get to hear what she has to say. Are you willing to accept that?”

His words put a tourniquet on his heart, and yet deep within it, he knows he doesn’t have to think about it. His choice has been made since he realized. Ashe shakes his head, tears falling in shimmering droplets onto their fingers entwined.

“Lonato, I -- I’m not ready.”

He tilts his head. “To go back?”

“No, Papa,” he shakes his head again, grasping him tighter. “I’m not ready to be without her.” 

“That’s what I thought,” he smiles gently, with the most tender affection.

“Lonato, I -- I never got to tell you,” he whimpers. “Five years ago, I -- I’m so sorry for -- I should have been a better son -- ”

“Ashe, the fate I met with was the one I deserved,” he mutters. He bows his head deeply, and brings his hand up to his lips, a knightly display of love. Each kiss to his knuckles sears him to the bone. “The only reason you failed to save me, is because I did not allow you to. You don’t need to be sorry for one. Single. Thing.” 

A childish sob wracks through him, and he clings to his father, sniffling, hugging him tightly with his arms wrapped about his neck. Just like he used to when he was so very little. “I miss you. So much.” 

“You will be with me again. One day,” he says it like a promise. Ashe believes him, wholeheartedly. “Not today. Today, you have something to do, don’t you? Something to tell somebody?”

“I do,” Ashe nods, unraveling his arms from around him. 

“Then go, my boy. Dry your tears.” Lonato swipes his thumb across his cheek. “I love you.” 

“I love you, Papa,” he sputters. “I’ll make you proud, I swear it.”

“Ashe,” he mutters, coughing through a laugh. “You already have.”

Ashe lets himself cry, thick splashes of tears dripping down his nose. He rests his forehead against Lonato’s, sharing the warmth of his touch before it dissipates. His form crumbles to dust, vanishing into the mysterious fog. The rest of the not-Castle Gaspard fades along with him, and his vision is reduced to slits of cloudy white once again.

***

“I love you.”

He hears a voice say. _Her_ voice. 

(There’s someone who wants to tell you something important.)

The first breath he takes feels like fire in his lungs. The sensation makes him cough and sputter, writhing against the makeshift bed of twig and muslin. The ground is cold, and the light of the rising sun casts a shred of amber light through the shabby tent. He’s Back, and her voice is the first thing he hears. He opens his eyes to meet hers.

“Byleth?” 

The glow of her radiant face dances into shape, her heavenly eyes glimmering with the onslaught of fresh tears. Rose blooms in her cheeks as her breath catches in her throat. Ashe hopes with all that he’s got that he’s not still dreaming. 

“Ashe?” she says, bewildered. Her hands grace his hair, fingers slipping cautiously through it like he’ll shatter to pieces if she doesn’t move carefully.

“Byleth!” he laughs into her name, enraptured, a bubbling in his chest as his tongue touches his teeth. She throws herself on top of him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Wet tears slather his clammy skin, the heat of them making him ticklish. He noses her mop of hair, breathing in her oceanic scent. Clutching her tight. For a moment he fears she’ll crumble to dust as well, but she’s warm, solid, the weight of her a pleasant crush against his ribs. 

“I missed you,” she mumbles. 

“It’s okay, I’m here now,” he tells her, threading his hand through her hair. His fingers get tangled. “I’m right here.”

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, throatily, and he pulls her off to look her in the face.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he insists. He wants to make sure she understands, but she shakes her head.

“Not only for that,” she starts. “Ashe...I should have told you…”

“Yes?” he breathes, feeling his heart jump. She wets her mouth, the pink in her face brightening.

“I’m in love with you,” she tells him, her voice airy and dreamlike. He’s not sure how she can sound both far away and extremely close, but it’s dissonant, disorienting -- the sound of it makes him dizzy. He really hopes he’s not still dreaming. 

“I thought I -- ” she struggles, choking back a sob, but he cups her face, pulling her in nose-to-nose. Closer than they’d ever been before. He swallows down a lump in his throat.

“I thought I wouldn’t get to tell you,” she confesses. He feels the whole of her body trembling on top of him, quivering, her thighs clenched around his hips. The surge of mixed emotions has him rendered immobile, stunned -- all he feels is his heart pumping wildly beneath her breast. She’s so impossibly warm. 

“I love you too, Byleth,” he hears himself say, in a much lower voice than intended, one that makes her pupils blow wide. “I've loved you since I was seventeen, I -- ”

It’s not poetry, nothing like the desperate declarations of love written in the fanfares of his well-loved fairy tales -- but it’s enough to connect his heart to hers. Enough to inspire her to seal it with a rough, bruising kiss to his lips. 

The instant their lips lock, the world goes still. Like everything up to this moment had only been a prelude, that every kiss he’d ever shared with anyone else in his life had only been practice for this. She crushes her mouth against his so tightly he can feel her teeth, and his nose is bent so that he can hardly breathe, but he cannot remember a kiss ever feeling like this. Like his heart has been torched aflame, and the ends of his nerves are sparking into lightning. Thunder roars in his blood. He feels more alive in her arms than he ever has before. 

Byleth seems to realize they’re going to need air eventually, though, as she breaks the kiss -- only to re-situate herself, to tilt her head proper and give him more breathing room. She captures his lips again, softer this time, a little more gentle -- the gesture makes his head swim. 

“Mmf, Byleth -- ” he moans into her mouth.

“Shh, don’t -- let me -- let me -- ” she mutters, never leaving more than hair’s breadth between their lips. She kisses him over and over, like there’s nothing else she’d been made to do, like it’s her only life’s ambition. He doesn’t want her to ever stop. 

“Byleth,” he barely makes out before she covers his mouth with her own again, and they kiss, and kiss, completely lost to each other, until --

“Teach! Everything okay? We thought we saw a -- oh,” Claude’s voice cuts through the haze. Byleth’s head snaps up to meet the wide eyes of the Duke, a gloved hand clasped over his mouth as he stifles a blubber of a laugh. He looks baffled, completely, but only for a second before his expression is replaced with one of stark relief. He shakes his head, the cheesiest grin upon his handsome face as he pins the tent open for more prying eyes. “Well, geez, it really _was_ a miracle. Hilda wins the bet -- fork over the candy, Lysithea -- nAshe is alive -- ”

“Ashe? Oh, by the grace of the Goddess!” Marianne coos over his shoulder, hands wrung in thankful prayer. Flayn is just barely visible behind her, saintly voice ringing in joyous praise.

“Ashe has awoken? Oh, blessed be!”

The crunch of withered leaves under quickened footsteps lead up to Ignatz, popping his head in next to Claude’s. Wistful tears glisten on his face, touched by the sunshine. “Ashe! Oh, thank Heavens -- the world shines a little brighter on this darkened day!”

And Hilda shoves him aside to take her own peek at their risen friend, gleeful tears finally washing the smears of makeup from her rounded cheeks. “Geez! Way to go, Professor, we were worried sick!” 

“Welcome back, sharpshooter,” Claude beams at him. He looks truly thankful, and Ashe’s heart melts just a little more.

“Thank you, everybody, I’m sorry to have upset you -- ”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” a familiar nasally voice cuts through the cheery chattering. “Ugh, of _course_ that’s the first thing you’d say -- ”

“Relieved to see you too, Lysithea!” Ashe chortles, taking delight in the shade of red spread across her pretty face. The lot of them coo and fawn over him, words of thanks to the Goddess and expressions of relief and tears shed, until the Alliance Lord waves his hand, shushing them, shooing them away from the entrance to the tent.

“Okay, okay, let’s not overcrowd him, let the man catch his breath -- not every day you survive a blow from Dedue -- ”

And then the cold fist of reality hammers into him. Ashe’s face falls, the color drained from it in a heartbeat. “Dedue...is he?”

“We don’t know,” Byleth answers, sobering. Claude shakes his head.

“His Highness, Dimitri is…” The Lord cuts himself off, rubbing at the stubble along his chin. He takes a breath before he tries to find Ashe’s eyes again. “Well, there’ll be plenty of time to talk later, you need to take it easy for now. We need to get back to the monastery before nightfall -- we've got a lot to prepare."

“Do you think you can walk?” Byleth asks him fretfully. Ashe shrugs, a little hopelessly. In truth, he feels absolutely fine, as if nothing had touched him -- just fatigued, tired to the bone.

“Well, if there’s room in a saddle for two…”

“I’m sure Dorte won’t mind,” she smiles. “Let’s get you dressed.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Claude nods to them. “We’ll meet at the riverbank. Don’t keep us waiting!”

He laughs into the words, waggling his fingers under his chin before letting the flap of the tent flutter closed. 

Byleth is upon him again within seconds. Her eager mouth captures his lips in one kiss after another, each one making his head spin. She kisses with ferocity, a hunger like he’s never known, like she wants to devour him. He wants to let her. She takes his bottom lip between her teeth and he groans, feeling the front of his trousers rising to attention already. Blood is rushing south faster than he can process, his head abuzz with arousal.

“Byleth,” he moans, grinding his hips up into her.

“I’m -- supposed to be -- getting you ready,” she says between kisses. “But it’s so hard…”

“I’ll say,” he chortles, and she smacks his side.

“Ashe!”

“Sorry, that was terrible, wasn’t it?” 

“Not the worst joke you’ve made,” she admits, giggling freely. He smiles even wider, combing his fingers through her bright hair.

“I love hearing your laugh,” he gushes. “I’m so happy I can hear it again.”

“Ashe...you’re really alive,” she sighs like she’s in awe of him. It makes him blush.

“All because of you,” he tells her. “Because you love me.”

“I do,” she affirms, kissing him again. And again. “I love you.” (And one more time.)

“I love you, too,” he says, and is kissed one-more-one-more time.

***

Claude calls for a council the moment they return to the monastery. 

It’s well past supper. The toil and the trek back have left the lot of them exhausted of heart, as well as body, but they gather in the cardinals’ room anyway. Word of Imperial reinforcements gathering at Fort Merceus drives their collective anxiety up a wall, and it will be well over a month before additional troops arrive from the Northern Alliance. They can’t afford to dawdle, not when the Stubborn Old General is getting a shoe-shine on his steel-toed boots, but they’re between a rock and a hard place, here. 

Hilda makes some off-handed joke about an inside job, disguising themselves and sneaking in to take them from the inside-out, and Ashe watches a light flicker on in Claude’s eyes. Then the bickering starts from Lorenz's end of the table, and he loses his place in the conversation -- not because he doesn’t want to participate, but because he’s finally noticed the way that Byleth has been staring at him from across the way.

He doesn’t hear Claude’s dismissal when it comes. Raphael thwacks him on the shoulder and barks something about food, but it doesn’t stick. Lazy bids of goodnight and promises of seeing him in the morning worm in and out of his ears as the former professor carefully watches each Deer file out of the hall one by one. Their leader is the last to leave, of course, sporting a wicked, knowing grin he’s sure he wasn’t supposed to see. The door is slammed shut behind him. 

Byleth climbs onto the table. 

Fist in his shirtfront, she bites at his mouth, kissing him harshly and with such fervor she almost knocks him backward from his seat. He struggles to balance in his chair, clutching at her cloak.

“P-Profess -- Byleth -- ”

Moaning into his mouth, Byleth scratches at him. Sucking in each breath he exhales in a feverish exchange of air. Her teeth scrape against his jaw as she tries to kiss him and misses. He scoots his chair forward to better reach her.

“Mmf, Byleth, please,” he pants, desperately. He leans in to kiss her proper but she pulls away, lips quirking.

“Please what.”

“Please kiss me again,” he pouts, and she obliges, fervently, panting a little before catching his lips. 

Papers and scrolls flutter and fall to the floor -- he thinks he hears an ink bottle shatter somewhere near his feet. Byleth is half-hanging off the edge of the table, knees scraping against the teakwood. His chair creaks noisily as he’s pushed back on it. He’s not sure if she’s trying to send him backward or climb into his lap -- it doesn’t seem as though she can make up her mind. She kisses him so frantically, as if trying to swallow him whole, tongue rolling over his in a messy, juvenile manner. She’s being sloppy and unhindered, but he finds it hard to complain -- he’s never felt so wanted. 

With a hand at the back of her neck, he tries to rein her in, to steady her. She meets him with wild eyes, her lips swollen and pink-red like she’d just bitten into a ripe strawberry. 

“Ashe.” She swings her legs off the table, making to sit in his lap. The wretched chair squeaks, legs forced apart under the newly added weight. They’re definitely going to end up breaking it. He gulps, cock already swelling under her pelvis. She smiles when she feels it.

“Professor,” he strains. The form of address makes the color rise in her neck and he twitches. He feels so small, suddenly, beneath her. Almost like a pining teenager again. She toys with his hair, combing it back with her fingers before closing the gap between them. This kiss is gentler, slower this time, but not without urgency. The even pace makes the pounding in his chest grow faster, somehow. 

“You’re so warm, Ashe,” she murmurs. “Your lips are so soft.”

“S-So are yours,” is all he can think to say. He can barely think at all with her chest pressed up against him like this, her arms snaking around his neck. Their lips part and meet again, and he swipes his tongue along her bottom lip. 

“Who taught you…to kiss like this?” she asks playfully, in a way to assure him there’s no right or wrong answer. Steadily, she grinds into his lap, rocking into him. The chair creaks a little louder. He’s throbbing in his pants. “It certainly wasn’t me…”

“Are you -- aah -- jealous, Professor?” 

Byleth squirms, her voice graveling and hoarse. “Just wondering who I should commend.”

Ashe leans back, tilting his head like he has to think really hard about it. He slides his tongue between his lips, pointedly wetting his mouth. Her eyes follow the motion just like he’d hoped.

“Hmm, I think you already know, though.” Emboldened, his fingers float to the dip in her narrow waist, digging into it to hold her in place, lifting her just a tad. He lists off the names, a bold thrust into her hips punctuating each one. “Dorothea -- Lysithea -- Dedue -- Ignatz -- Sylvain -- ”

Byleth tosses her head back, gasping between each name -- he can feel her wetness soaking through her shorts, warm on his cock.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not jealous, Professor?”

Her breath hitches on a laugh as she grinds down onto him, swiveling her hips. Ashe chokes, moaning at the invigorated friction. She grabs his face, pinching his jaw between her thumb and forefinger sharply. His heart seizes.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, bad boy?”

Nervous laughter erupts from his throat -- she looks a little surprised at herself, like she can hardly believe her own language, but he _loves_ it. His cock has started to ache so much it hurts, but it hurts so _good_. He moves in to kiss her, but she draws backward, muttering an “uh-uh” to tease him. 

“So I’m bad huh?” he eggs her on, unsure -- his body’s shaking in a thirst for release, but finishing now would leave no more fun to be had. He doesn’t think she’s used to this sort of thing, this dirty-talk thing, if the shock of her expression just now means anything. He’s been patient this long, though. Maybe he can work her up to it. He laces his fingers between the criss-crossing cords at the back of her chest armor. “What are you going to do about it?”

Through his years of experimentation, Ashe had come to learn that this question merited one of two answers: an equally snarky retort, or a direct action, the latter being the far less common response. He had a habit of pursuing rather chatty people -- the exception being Dedue, of course, with whom things had never progressed far enough to have this question come up. So when Byleth’s fingers fly to wrap around his throat, Ashe is so caught off-guard he gags, wriggling beneath her.

“Professor, w-wow -- ”

Her grip loosens immediately, worry crossing her face. She stops moving altogether, jaw tensing. 

“Is this too much?” she frets. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, it’s perfect, you’re _perfect_,” he chirps quickly, holding her wrist. “You could go harder.”

“Are you sure?” she asks him. She looks almost upset, but the heat flaring low in his belly keeps him from thinking too much about it. Her fingers are resting gingerly around his neck, the warmth of them sending tingles shooting up his spine. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

Ashe groans, and hoping the frustration in his voice isn’t too harsh, bucks his hips up into her so hard he almost knocks her right off his lap. She moans, her grip on his neck tightening for balance, as her hand had already been there -- Ashe makes a snarling noise more fit for a dog.

“If you can’t feel my heartbeat in my throat, you’re not squeezing hard enough,” he grouses, watching her eyes glass over at the drop in his voice. “Please, do it harder, Byleth. You won’t hurt me, I promise. I won’t let you.”

She makes this face, some indecipherable expression he hasn’t the mind to process at the moment, and curls her fingers tighter around his neck. It’s an experimental move, a tentative squeeze -- but the pressure makes his stomach do somersaults. He moans appreciatively, and that seems to reassure her a little more, earning him a tighter squeeze around his windpipe. Her nails are digging into his skin and it’s only a little bit hard to breathe now. 

“Like this?” she asks with doctor-like interest, watching his face with blank fascination. The fear he thinks he saw in her eyes is absent now, and something different has come to light, like she’s looking upon something brand-new. Her other hand floats to his crotch, and all it takes is one brush against it for his heart to feel like it’s bursting. 

He hasn’t the voice to tell her _yes, yes that’s it_ \-- so he writhes beneath her, begging with his hips. She palms at him more aggressively, all but taking his cock out as she kisses him again, harshly, biting. She gives his throat another squeeze and his loss of breath isn’t for the choking, but for the way she rocks against him in just the right rhythm, just hard enough to --

“Aaa-AAA -- ”

The chair gives out as he thought it would, and the two of them are on the floor in a split second. Ashe figures the broken pedestal digging into his back would hurt a lot more if he could focus on it at all, but the jolt of shock has only heightened his sensitivity. Byleth frets over him again, lifting him upright, still situated in his lap.

“I’m okay,” he insists. 

“Are you sure?” she asks him shakily. “We can stop, if you need to -- ”

“Don’t stop,” he says quickly, breathing fast. He pushes the wooden remnants out of the way to lay his back against the floor, drawing her hand to his throat again. “Please, don’t stop.”

Again, she looks unsure, fearful, even, but he tries to smile, gyrating his hips underneath hers. He’s only a little sore. It’ll probably bruise in the morning, but that’s a problem for future-Ashe. Right-now-Ashe wants a different sort of bruise.

“You don’t have to undress me, but please, would you keep going?” he asks her sweetly, watching her melt at his request. “I’m so close, Professor…”

She looks bemused, smirking with a slight roll of her eyes -- he flushes, arching into her as she squeezes his neck. Her other hand finds his crotch again, and when she palms at him, he whines. His whole body twitches as all the blood rushes to his groin. 

She says nothing else as her hands rub at him through fabric, her face a familiar blank slate as he rasps and wheezes in her clutches. Her hips jerk in a practiced, steady beat, keeping time with his gasps. The emptiness in her eyes would be startling to anyone else, he’s sure, but he can’t help but feel excited. He knows she’d be the last person to judge him unfairly, but the way she’s staring at him so intensely, like he’s worth no less than the dirt on her boots? Oh, his heart. He thinks he’ll pass out. 

His stomach clenches. Ashe lurches forward, grabbing her wrist as he gurgles a scream -- she releases his throat instantly, leaning back to give him room to breathe. He twitches into his climax, sweat slipping down his collar -- every muscle is so tense, tight. Byleth ceases winding her hips, moving off of him to slowly stroke at his still-covered cock, almost petting it. His hips jerk of their own accord. 

“Byleth,” he mutters, looking at her adoringly -- he falters upon realizing she’s not smiling back.

“I’m sorry.” 

Ashe springs upright, worry toiling into a knot in the pit of his chest. “Whatever for?”

“Calling you ‘bad’. I didn’t mean it.”

He actually has to physically stop himself from laughing. 

“I didn’t think you did,” he tells her, grinning again. “It’s okay. I liked it.”

“Really?” she looks sincerely surprised, tilting her head like she’s bewildered.

“Yes!” he chirps, enthused. “I liked it very much. I like being teased.” Her eyes flicker to the wet spot on his pants and he swallows, chortling awkwardly. “As I’m sure you can plainly see.”

She breathes out the tiniest laugh, shoulders relaxing. “Yes, well -- I just want to make sure you knew, I wasn’t doing it to be cruel.” 

“I like a bit of cruelty,” he tells her honestly, and she looks even more confused. 

“Why?” 

Ashe takes a moment to just look back at her, probably just as puzzled as she is. Huh -- no one has ever asked him such a thing before. Why, indeed. Even when he had just discovered it for himself, he’d known it wasn’t a very common thing. Normal people don’t like this sort of treatment, do they? And yet no one he’d ever romped around with ever called it into question. They’d just been happy to oblige him.

“I’m not really sure how to explain,” he admits, and it’s the truth -- he’s far from a state fit to navigate this topic, and she seems satisfied to table it for the moment, pushing the hair from his eyes.

“You don’t have to right now. I’m just curious.”

“I promise you haven’t done me wrong,” he assures her, willing his legs to stand. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.”

“I’m glad,” she says, a little pink in the cheeks. “I was more than a little rough with you.”

There’s an uncomfortable brush of her ass against his crotch as she stands up too, and his knees are almost buckling. He’s so weak to her, it’s remarkable. 

“You can be as rough as you like,” he teases. She clears her throat, straightening up her shorts. If she’s embarrassed at all, she wants to hide it. Ashe wishes she wouldn’t, but he should let up on the teasing. At least for tonight. 

“We should get some rest,” he says.

“Tired you out, have I?” she smirks. 

“Not _that_ tired,” he can’t help himself, sidling up to her until she takes his hand. “Can we go to your room?”

“That depends,” she sighs. “Are you going to try to sleep on the floor again?” 

Ashe laughs. “No!”

“Good,” she hums. She lifts his hand to kiss it. “Be with me, then.” 

A simple request, he thinks. He never wants to be without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa, almost 6,000 hits! so many kudos! thank you all so much!


	13. rope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a thing with chairs, apparently

They fool around some more upon returning to Byleth’s quarters. She does suggest they figure out some kind of plan for dinner, but he makes some terrible pun about being hungry for _something_, and then they just end up on the floor instead. Half-naked and howling, Byleth cums with her thighs wrapped around his head, and any want for food is quickly nixed by her long for a good night’s sleep. She passes out first, and just as well, she wakes up first too. 

He sleeps like an angel. Not that he doesn’t always look cherubic -- the youthful freckles certainly help with that -- but in this impuissant state of rest, she is reminded of just how delicate he is, how beguiling. To think she’d almost lost him makes her ache. 

Gronder somehow feels like it happened years ago rather than just a few days past, but she’s still struggling to let go of the guilt. It was almost Jeralt all over again. The memory stirs her enough to make her reach out, to clutch him close. She slides her hand up his shirt, palm pressed against his hot skin. She nudges his cheek with her nose and he blinks his eyes open, stretching out his legs.

“Sleep well?” she murmurs.

“Mmm -- how couldn’t I?” he quips. He wrinkles his nose at her, grinning wide. If a kitten could be fed and happy every time he smiled, she would like to make it so. 

Byleth hums, scooting in closer to be held by him, just for a few moments. He noses her hair, breath warm against her skin. 

“How about you?”

“I think I was dreaming.” She turns over on her back, stares up at the ceiling. “We made it to the fortress, but there were these...lights. Strange beams of light. Everything came crashing down.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant dream,” he frowns.

“Let’s just hope it’s not an omen,” she jokes, but Ashe’s brows crease.

The lines under his eyes aren’t so harsh, but they stand out when he frets. His hand finds hers under the quilt. “Are you worried, Professor?”

“It’s hard not to be,” she admits.

“I understand,” he says. “It doesn’t help that Claude hasn’t told us much about his plan. His Highness never would have done something like that.”

“I wasn’t referring to Claude,” she says, a little more sharply than intended. “Does it really bother you?”

“N-No! Sorry, that came out wrong,” he apologizes hastily. “I just -- this infiltration scheme is risky. I think he knows a lot of us don’t feel great about it.”

“That’s not untrue,” she says. “But it’s par for the course. Claude has always played his cards close to the chest.”

“But to do so right when the Empire is at their most threatening,” he frets. “I don’t think even the Emperor would take such a risk…”

“I’m sure he’s betting on that,” Byleth says, and he seems to relax a little more. 

“He just seems to have a plan for everything. He’s braver than he gives himself credit for.”

“I think so too,” she lets herself smile. “But you know he’s only confident because we believe in him.”

Ashe smiles weakly, rolling over on his belly. He stretches his arms and folds them under his chin as he fixates on a random groove in the wood of the ceiling. 

“Profess...Byleth.”

“Yes, Ashe,” she says.

“I don’t want to kill Edelgard.”

The words come easily. Vulnerably, but assertively; unapologetic. The hurt in his voice is apparent, but as much as it pains her to see him struggle, it puts her at ease knowing he’s not afraid to speak his truth. Even more encouraging that she shares the sentiment. She hadn’t thought for a moment that she’d be the only one of this mind -- their house is that of the Deer, after all. If metaphors were tangible they’d have drowned in the blood of their own hearts long ago, but no one else had actually voiced their adversity so directly to her until now. She closes her eyes, raising a hand to her forehead. 

“Neither do I.”

“Don’t tell Seteth, but,” he starts, timidly, “I think she’s right about the church.”

She looks at him then, frowning. His confession doesn’t come as a surprise at all -- she already knows what he’s thinking about. But he says it with such cold conviction that she finds herself taken aback. His eyes are dark, the faint rings of blue beneath them just a little more prominent. He looks haunted. Not in the same way Dimitri had been; just enough to make it plain that he hasn’t completely let go of his anger. 

“They killed my brother,” he murmurs. “And my father. To tell you the truth, it almost makes me sick to work alongside them.”

Her chest aches. She has her own feelings about the Church of Seiros -- none of which extend past the point of indifference. She views it much the same way Claude does: as a tool, a means to achieve their goals. Its support had helped turn the tides of this war, but if she reconsiders it, it’s really the believers who’d made the changes happen. It was all the work of the people, not of the church itself. Its figurehead has been gone, and they’ve had only themselves. The symbol only paved the way for progress -- would they really need it once they’ve won? 

She starts thinking so hard about it, she almost doesn’t hear him say something else.

“But I don’t want to sacrifice innocent people just to take them down.” 

She sighs, turning on her side to trail her fingers up and down his spine, smiling when he squirms just a bit. “She thinks her ideals can’t be realized without that sacrifice.”

“Byleth,” he starts, wistfully, “if you just...talked with her, is there a possibility she would yield?”

Hardly a beat of silence passes before she answers, plainly. “No.”

“No?” He sounds so surprised. “None at all?”

“No,” she says again. Ashe wouldn’t know how much it pains her for the flatness of her voice, but her reply is no less difficult to give. “Edelgard is...she has a dream, too, like Claude. I just don’t think she wants to accept that it’s the same one.”

“But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” he balks, frustrated. “I mean, maybe their priorities are different, but don’t they have the same vision for Fodlan in the end?” 

“You think so?” She knows so. Still, she wants to hear his thoughts.

“I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” he starts, a little lighter, but his tone is no less passionate. “I thought more about it, and I realized something. Of all the things the church has held in high regard, like Crests -- without it, the entire system it's implemented would be dismantled, wouldn’t it? Things like Crests wouldn’t matter anymore -- meaning nobles wouldn’t be _nobles_ anymore. The class structure would fall on its legs, and we would be allowed to see each other for who we really are. That’s what Claude wants most of all, right? For people to realize that we _all_ have value, regardless of standing or belief or culture. If they worked together, extraordinary things could happen to the ways we connect and develop not only across Fodlan, but maybe even the world. The potential is endless, isn’t it?” 

A rare smile stretches wide across her face as she looks at him in awe. For all the strings dangling around the events of this war, she’s tied maybe two or three of them together by now. Commanding an army hasn’t allowed her much time to consider these things, and if Claude doesn’t bring them up, she can’t say she’s had the mind for things like this. But Ashe seems to have connected dots she hadn’t realized were even on the map. He would make an exceptional leader, if he wanted to be. With a theory like that, she thinks Claude would have to agree. 

“You’re quite the idealist, Ashe,” she tells him, and he laughs.

“You kind of have to be to support a man like Claude.”

“That certainly is so,” she agrees. His smile falters as he rubs his eyes.

“Byleth, do you…” he starts a thought, but doesn’t finish, lifting himself up to sit. Byleth frowns.

“What’s on your mind?”

“His Highness and the others...they didn’t have to die.” He looks forlorn, eyes cast off toward the open window. The curtains are drawn just barely, allowing a strip of soft light to cut the shadow across his face in the dimly lit bedroom. The gold makes the green of his eyes glow, his freckles dance. Byleth sits up too. 

“No, they didn’t.”

“But I think they knew they would,” he speaks cautiously, like he’s waiting to be scolded for his words. But Byleth, always patient, just listens.

“When I subdued the prince, it was Dedue who came for me,” he says, tangentially. A bird sweeps across the other side of the window, twittering on the sill. Its melodic and cheerful song is muted behind the glass. 

“The two of you were close,” she remarks, and Ashe nods.

“At one point, yes. We were good friends,” Ashe nods. “And yet, in that moment, he cut me down without hesitation, just because I stood between him and his lord. The bond we shared didn’t matter anymore.”

Her brows wind together. Byleth shifts behind him, a soothing hand on his back. “Ashe…”

“They hadn’t come to Gronder Field in the name of justice,” he says, like he’s talking to himself just as much as to her. “A troop that small knows it has no chance at victory. They knew they would die following Dimitri -- they knew what they were fighting for.”

Byleth tilts her head. “Revenge?”

“Love,” Ashe answers, with an air of defeat and an ironic smile. “I think...they made their choice out of love.”

***

Everybody knows.

Maybe she’s being ridiculous, but it really does seem that way. She’s making her rounds saying hello to everyone, checking in on her not-students, and everyone’s got a Look about them -- all of them wearing the same caustic grin. She’s trying to find Dorothea, asking every friend she comes to pass, but nobody’s actually helping -- instead just meeting her with giggles and snivels. She could be overreacting, but she swears they’re skirting around her, keeping their greetings short like they have to avoid speaking with her. 

Leonie claps her harshly on the shoulder and exclaims that Jeralt would be so proud (awkward), and Claude talks suspiciously quietly in Lorenz’s ear when she leaves the breakfast table (literally when has _that_ ever happened before). It’s bizarre. Even Catherine and Shamir exchange one of Those Looks when she passes through the Reception Hall to say good morning. Shamir was _laughing_. Byleth doesn’t think she’d ever seen her so much as crack a grin until today. By the time she reaches the bridge, she checks her clothes just to make absolute certain she didn’t catch the back of her skirt against a doorknob or something. 

Ignatz is the only person who doesn’t make any sort of sly remark or lift his brow when he says “Oh, Dorothea? She’s in the cathedral,” with the most honest, non-threatening smile she’s seen all day.

The warlock is reading. Feet tucked under her bottom, she’s got a book splayed across her lap, but she doesn’t appear to be committed to it. She glances up and around intermittently, as if in anticipation of something. Byleth waves to her attention.

“The library is still standing, you know,” she jokes.

“True, but I don’t have much of a tolerance for that dusty-shelf smell,” she says with a grin. “How are you, Professor? Sleep well?”

She settles against the wall next to her, sits with her legs crossed. It’s only a little damp. “Indeed.”

Dorothea smirks. “I suppose having company makes it easier, doesn’t it?” 

“Word travels fast,” Byleth sighs. She should have expected as much.

“Funny how the nature of the rumor mill still surprises you,” she says, flipping the book closed. “There’s not much to gossip about these days, you know. What else is there to talk about apart from the war?”

“A fair point,” she agrees, smiling faintly. 

“So has he asked you to tie him up yet?” Dorothea asks bluntly, a wicked glint in her emerald eyes. Byleth’s breath pops off in a gasp.

“What?” she asks, almost inaudibly, immediately closing her mouth after the word drops off.

“There’s no need to be shy, Professor! Ashe asked you to do something kinky last night, didn’t he? And you sought me out for advice?” she prattles on like a stray garden wagon, hitting a bump and flying down a hill. Byleth is only half-stunned. She had a feeling this conversation would go something like this -- Dorothea is already over-eager and it’s saved her idle chatter, but it’s no less jarring to hear her speak so plainly about something like this. And she keeps going! “I never slept with him, but I can do my best -- unless you’d rather push your luck with Lysithea -- ”

“Slow down, Dorothea,” Byleth asks her gently, forehead creasing. The taller woman blushes a little. 

“Oh, forgive me -- that was a little unsavory of me,” she titters. “I just got too excited.”

“It’s alright. I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says honestly.

“So merciful!” Dorothea chirps, and quickly lowers her voice, scooting in just a little closer to her. “So? I can tell you have questions. You’ve got that look on your face.”

She’s heard that one before. Rather than beat around the bush, she just goes out with it. “Why does he want me to hurt him?”

The color drains from Dorothea’s face in a matter of seconds. “Wh...Professor?”

Byleth sighs -- this clearly isn’t what she’d anticipated, but the dam is broken. She frowns and attempts to explain her plight. “He hasn’t asked for anything past my hands around his throat, but I can tell he wants more. He seems to like the pain. Which is fine -- I don’t believe it’s a problem. I just can’t seem to understand where it’s coming from.”

“Have you talked about it?” she quirks a brow, and Byleth shakes her head.

“He said he couldn’t explain. He didn’t seem ready to.”

“Ah, figures. He’s a shy one.” Her smirk returns. “It’s always the shy ones.”

Byleth doesn’t get it. “What?”

“Oh, never mind,” Dorothea giggles. “Anyway, I think I can tell you why, Professor.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m not much of a masochist myself -- ” (she puts a funny sort of emphasis on “masochist”) “ -- but there’s something thrilling to be had with pain, if the right person is inflicting it. You see, to be completely at the mercy of someone you love is...exhilarating, for someone like Ashe.”

Exhilarating. He’d certainly seemed as such when she’d been squeezing his windpipe. The way his eyes rolled back and his breathing stuttered -- it’s enough to make the blood sing in her veins. But she still can’t grasp the reasoning behind it. She must still be making a face, because Dorothea sighs. 

“Think about it this way, Professor,” she continues, “He wants to make himself vulnerable to you physically as well as emotionally. He can give you his body along with his heart.”

“So it’s out of trust?” she tries to figure, and Dorothea’s smile warms her.

“Yeah, see? You’ve got it.”

“I think so,” she says, feeling a little lighter now that she understands, but. “But it doesn’t make me any less apprehensive.” 

“Are you worried you’ll hurt him?” she asks, and Byleth frowns deeply.

“He’s already been hurt because of me.”

“You can’t think like that, Professor,” Dorothea tells her, resting a hand upon hers. “I know _he_ certainly doesn’t see it that way. Maybe you need to forgive yourself before you can dabble in this sort of thing, huh?”

“I feel selfish, making him wait on me,” she says. “This is about making _him_ happy, isn’t it?”

“Well, you can’t very well make him happy unless you’re happy with yourself.”

“You’re right,” Byleth concedes, pride swelling within her. She moves in to embrace her, resting her chin upon her shoulder, the softness of her long tresses caressing her face like a fine silk pillow. She is content to hold her there, until the other woman squeaks with an idea.

“Might I suggest starting with something tame?” she starts, pulling away with a giggle. “You don’t have to try anything too wild -- honestly, Ashe is rather vanilla as it is. I think you’ll find that you worried for nothing once you’ve tried it.”

Intrigued, Byleth shrugs. “What do you have in mind?”

She twirls a strand of hair around her slender finger. “I’ve already mentioned it.” 

The Wheel in her head hits a stopper. “Tie him up?”

***

One week (and two atypical conversations with Anna) later, Byleth comes into possession of a rather handsome stock of velvet rope. Deep, royal blue, said to have once hung the curtains in the royal palace in Fhirdiad. It hadn’t come cheap, but she could tell the young merchant was having trouble selling it, and she’s more than happy to help Anna with some extra coin.

She wasn’t very well going to bind her little boyfriend’s hands together with the same shit they kept in the stables, anyway. Byleth can’t pretend she knows much about this sort of thing at all, but surely nobody uses _those_.

Anna takes the bulging bag of gold with a wink and Byleth treads up the stairs from the market with the cording looped over her shoulder, blind to any curious glances tossed her way as she makes for the dormitories. She passes Seteth and Flayn at the fishing pond, both of whom ask why she’d waste so much money on book-binding material, to which she cheekily replies, “it’s not for books.” 

Flayn gets it before her father does, miraculously. Byleth doesn’t hear whatever excuse she makes up to get Seteth up to the dining hall. The rest of her walk is undisturbed, leaving her to the solace of her thoughts, all of which are consumed by the picture of Ashe’s pretty, blushing face. 

It takes days of staring at the damn thing slung lazily off the edge of her desk for her to pluck up the courage to finally show it to him. A few nights before their march to Fort Merceus, she takes him back to her quarters after the council.

“I have something for you,” she talks quietly in his ear. She feels him shivering as he backs away from having pressed her against the door. 

“For me?” he repeats. 

She nods, admittedly too anxious to say much as she jerks her head toward the davenport. He doesn’t seem to spot it right away, so she moves forward to pull it off the hatch of the bureau. Byleth pulls it taut in her grasp, her eyes level with the blue braiding.

“I thought we might try something,” she says evenly, blood thrumming in all her trepidation. But then his eyes light up like Bolganone and suddenly, all the disquiet within her melts away. 

“O-Oh.”

“If you’re alright with it, that is.” She’s only humoring herself by saying so -- he looks more-than-alright with it. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, sweat shining on his brow and neck already. His jaw tenses, gloved hands clenched at his sides as it seems he’s lost on what he’d like to do with them. 

“I’ve never done this to anyone before,” she says, stating the obvious. “So I might need your help along the way.” 

“O-Of course,” he says softly, shakily, fixated on her hands clutching the cords. “Um, where would you have me?”

The bed would be the obvious choice, and probably the most comfortable for him, but her eyes float to the desk chair. She draws it out to the middle of the room, positioning it in front of the bedside.

“Sit.”

He’s quick to obey. Ashe plops himself into the chair, fists curled at his knees as he looks up at her dolefully, awaiting further instruction. There’s something about the hopefulness in his eyes that strikes her -- he looks much like someone’s lost dog, seeking affection and comfort. She’s never wanted to take care of someone this badly. 

“Um, should I take anything off?” he asks her, patiently, in a higher voice than she’s sure he meant to use. The whole of his body has started to tremble, pink blossoming in his cheeks and ears as his breathing gets faster. She doesn't know how she'd ever thought this could be a bad idea. Byleth kneels down, setting the rope aside to work his coat open.

“I’ll take care of that,” she insists, stomach swimming in anticipation. He leans back in the chair, chest rising and falling rapidly as she unfastens the closures, one at a time. “I don’t know how you can wear such a thing in this weather.” 

Anxious laughter interrupts his labored breathing. “It’s not quite summer yet. My Faerghan blood runs a little cold, you know.”

“I can take care of that, too,” she quips, and he blushes, madly, laughing a little more. 

Once she has all the clasps undone, Byleth just looks at him, realizing it’s the first time she’s seen him (mostly) without a shirt or jacket since Aillel. She takes a moment just to stare, to map out the trail of freckles along his collarbone, wondering if they lead all the way down. The candlelight isn’t the most forgiving, but she likes the way it dances over the contours of his chest. She thinks she might like to lick her way up from the dip in his hips to his earlobe.

“I must look a lot different without all the magic wounds,” he mutters, irresistibly shy. 

“_Very_ different,” she feels herself purr, leaning in close. She slides her hands up his sides, thumbing over his nipples and relishing the soft moans she illicits from him. “A very _good_ different. I could have almost forgotten about tying you up.”

Ashe laughs, hollow and throaty. He’s squirming the tiniest bit. She pushes him against the back of the chair with one hand and picks up the rope with the other, a thrill rushing from her head to her toes. She hears him gulp. 

“My heart is pounding already,” he tells her sheepishly. He’s _so_ cute, but mild concern resurfaces as she takes pause. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“Not -- ah, not _quite_ the word I would use,” he shakes his head, grinning in a foxish sort of way. If he’s going to look at her like _this_ every time, then she thinks she might grow accustomed to this faster than she thought.

“I’ll get to it, then,” she says, fortified by his eagerness. “Just tell me if it’s too tight.” 

“Of course,” he agrees, and she starts at his ankles.

It’s a good thing she bought two. She can tell just by looking that one cord will only be enough for one side. She makes a loop around his ankle, drawing it once over and making a square knot at the wooden leg before running the rope parallel to the arm. She threads it under his wrist, then over and around, making another knot before stretching it out to secure his upper arm to the back of the chair.

“And you said you’ve never done this before,” he compliments her, visibly impressed. 

“Just following instinct,” she says bashfully. She repeats the same steps on the other side, rocking the base of the chair to see that it’s secure. “Is that alright?”

“Y-Yes, um,” he stumbles. He has no free hand in which to hide his face, so he lifts his shoulder, brows wound together in a plea. “But...would you be opposed to tying one around my neck too?”

Byleth’s throat feels dry. “If that’s what you’d like. Is it safe?”

“Yes,” he insists. “It’s much like -- erm, putting a dog on a leash, for lack of a better comparison.”

She doesn’t think she’ll ever tire of looking at his reddened face, freckles almost lost under the deep flush of fuschia across his nose. He looks _adorable_ when he begs -- he deserves everything he asks for. But she’s run out of rope. 

“I’m afraid something else will need to suffice,” she says, patting at her hips. The leather would be a mite harsh on his skin, but something about the way the front of his trousers tents assures her it won’t be an issue. She unlatches the silver buckle and the holster for her dagger falls with a thunk. She watches him watch the belt slide out of the loops of her shorts and drags it out slowly, teasing what’s to come. 

Ashe is writhing in his restraints and she’s only _looking_ at him. It's really that easy? “Byleth, you’re...that’s so…” 

“Will this do?” she asks coyly. She stands on her knees and pulls him a little forward by the strings of his hood. He whimpers. Carefully, Byleth wraps the belt around his neck, pushing the tail end through the buckle and pulling it through so that it fits snugly, with enough room to slide her hand under. She feels him swallow thickly against her fingers. 

“Yes, you’ve got it,” he rasps, hoarsely. His pulse throbs in the swell of his throat.

“Okay,” she strains, jittery and antsy as she takes a moment to look over her efforts thus far. He’s shaky, near breathless, the bulge in his pants impossible to ignore despite the beauty of his sweaty face. He purses his lips in barely a pout, erratic breathing almost melodic in her ears. The muscles in his stomach twitch in feverish anticipation.

She knew as soon as she bought the rope what she’d like to do, but she still can’t believe she actually gets to do it. “Let me know if I get too rough.”

“You have my word,” he promises. 

She moves between his legs, tilting her head up to pull him in for a tender, impassioned kiss. Ashe moans into her mouth, shaking as her hands find the fly of his slacks. With trembling hands, she slides the buttons open, tracing the outline of his stiffening erection, fascinated. Steadily, she palms at him, massaging him through the fabric of his under-clothes, lips traveling downward to kiss his collarbone. Ashe throws his head back, bucking his hips up into her touch -- the chair creaks. She tugs on the makeshift collar. 

“We can’t break this one,” she teases. “Are you going to be good for me?”

Ashe whines, nodding his head, but Byleth decides that’s not a good enough answer and gives the collar another forceful tug. He laughs into a choke, languid and raspy and incredibly sexy. 

“I’d like if you used your words for me, Ashe,” she commands him, hoping her tone lacks the apprehension she feels. 

“I’ll be good,” he answers, his voice a heavy grate. “I promise -- please -- touch me some more?”

She cocks her head, pushing the coat open enough to slide off his shoulders. Taking her lip between her teeth, she feigns consideration, eyes lingering on his hardened length. She grips the tail of the belt, choking him just a little harder.

“Beg for it,” she demands in a voice foreign to her own ears, gruff and throaty. Ashe’s dick _jumps_. 

“Byleth -- _please_,” he practically cries. His cheeks are rose-red, neck flushed scarlet as breathing seems to have become a great difficulty for him. Something hot melts in the pit of her chest.

“Tell me you want me,” she orders, yanking on the belt. He grimaces, coughing a little and she starts to fret, but the crack of his smile only widens. His eyes are glassy and bright. “Tell me how badly.”

“_So_ badly,” he keens, “So much so that I -- think I might die in this chair if you don’t kiss me again.”

She fights the smile threatening to break through her stony expression, her immovable heart struck with the fondest yearning to reach for him. She pushes his damp hair from his forehead, presses a soft kiss to his quivering lips. He responds in kind, pushing his tongue past the seam of her lips and she groans, hands finding the leather around his neck. She slips her fingers under the belt, smiling when she feels the frantic pounding of his pulse. Astounding, she thinks, how excited he’s become, just from this. She hasn’t even taken his cock out yet. 

Desperate to watch the effects of her further ministrations, Byleth pulls away, releasing her hold on the belt. Ashe is struggling to catch his breath, only to have it stolen away again once she pulls her shirt up over her head. 

Ashe can barely manage to get a word out. His jaw falls slack, chest heaving as he stutters some intelligible gibberish she’s sure he means as a compliment, remembering. Right, he hasn’t seen her naked yet. With the small satisfaction that comes with knowing she’s driving him mad with desire, Byleth slowly rises to stand, mindful of her breasts spilling out over the lace of her brassiere. She has to dare herself, but keeping her eyes on his, she finds the gall to rest her right foot on his crotch. Massaging him as she reaches around to unfasten her bra. 

“Is this too strange?” she asks softly, watching his eyes go foggy. He’s panting so heavily. 

“N-No, I, I,” he stutters. His eyes linger on her nipples, but don’t settle there, raking over the tone of her arms, the bowl of her collarbone, her narrow waist. He’s surely noticed the dark spot of wetness that’s staining her shorts. He takes his lip between his teeth. “You’re so..._geez_, I don’t even think -- beautiful doesn’t even -- wow -- ”

“Don’t strain yourself, now,” she says gently, toeing the outline of his cock. He’s rock-hard now, pre-cum staining his small-clothes. Byleth hums, sliding her hands into her shorts, beneath her tights. Maddeningly slowly even for her, she starts to pump herself with her fingers, breathing out a small laugh when Ashe writhes beneath her.

“You’re -- unbelievable,” he grouses, earning himself a harder press of her foot on his crotch. “You’re -- _torturing_ me, this is torture -- ”

“I thought you liked a bit of cruelty,” she says only half in jest, worry pricking at her. “Is this too much? I can stop -- ”

“No, no,” he shakes his head vigorously, insistent. “No, I -- meant it in a good way! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound -- ”

“Shh,” she cuts him off, foot flat against his cock. Maybe she imagines it, but she swears she feels it pulsing under her sole. “It’s alright. I trust you to tell me what you need.” 

“I need you to -- do more of that,” he pleads, looking shamelessly at her pelvis. 

He’s not in a position to be making requests like that, but he’s being such a good boy. She should indulge him. She takes her foot off his lap and nudges her shorts down, kicking them off and leaving herself only in the intricately patterned tights. 

“I want you to see all of me,” she tells him. She hooks her thumbs under the elastic of the stockings and turns around, giving him a gratuitous view of her ass. Ashe makes some blunder of a noise that makes the corner of her lips quirk. She peels off the offending garment with an unpracticed finesse, wondering what endearing expression he’s making as she’s bent over in front of him. She can almost feel the heat of his breath on her backside.

“Would that I could -- touch you,” he mutters. “But I c-can’t, like this. I’ve never been so heartbroken!”

It feels mean to giggle, but she doesn’t bother to stifle it, warmed more than anything by his brazen fondness for her. She turns about, facing front and sinking to her knees again, wetness dripping down her thighs. She reaches to finger herself once more, leaning back to give him a better look. 

“You can touch me all you like,” she starts to say, “once I’m done with you.” 

“What _are_ you going to do with me?” he asks deviously, arching a brow. 

She could answer him, or she just could do what she’s planned all along instead. He’s been so patient, he’s earned it, and she thinks she’d prefer if he’d get her off afterward anyway. Retracting her hand, she wraps her lips around her sticky fingers and sucks at her own fluids. Ashe's face crumbles. 

She makes some awful slurping noise as she swirls her tongue around her index and middle, teasing at what lies in store. Unblinking, she keeps her focus on him and he stares back, open-mouthed and wanting. 

“Byleth, you...you…” 

“Mmm?” she hums. Draws her fingers out with a soft _pop_. 

He looks at her as though he might eat her if given the chance. Like the second he’s free of his confines, he’ll pounce, like he’s out for her blood. There’s a dark shadow under his narrowed eyes that makes her cunt _throb_. He’s breathing like a cornered, wounded animal with its leg caught in a trap. She finds she likes this desperate look on him very, very much.

“Byleth,” he groans. “_Please_.” 

She lunges forward, fist clenched around the end of the belt as she crushes her lips to his, kissing him messily, ardently. He bites at her, stuttered breath coming in short gasps as she chokes him with the leather. With her other hand, she pulls his cock free of its constraints, thumbing over the dripping tip. Breaking off the kiss, she looks down to marvel at it before swallowing it -- he’s as big as she’d thought. She looks up at him once more, to search his face for permission she needn’t ask for. He’s chewing on his inner cheek, scarlet face glistening with sweat.

There’s not another word between them before she dips her head down. This is something she’s done before, something she knows. Gripping the base, she opens wide, enveloping his cock in her mouth. The weight of it sits heavy on her tongue.

Ashe shudders through a moan, shaking so badly the whole chair rickets from the movements. One hand still on the belt, she pulls at the leather, tugging him with a generous swallow of her tongue. Ashe thrusts up into her, hips trembling violently as she bobs her head up and down, attempting an agonizingly steady pace. She sucks hard, ignoring the unholy slurping noise as she swallows a mix of his fluids and her own saliva. 

“A-Aaaah, ahaa,” she hears him practically singing as he writhes in his seat. She can feel his heartbeat in his cock. He’s not going to last very long at all. 

Byleth quickens her movements, languid but urgent, listening for any hope Ashe chooses to verbalize. He’s twitching, panting so hard and so quickly it’s worrying -- she feels that he’s close, but another idea for his climax comes to mind. 

Taking him from her mouth, Byleth leans into his lap, earning herself a befuddled look from her shaking boyfriend as she re-situates herself. Blushing, she cups her tits, lifting her head to watch him as she squeezes them around his cock. It’s an exploratory move, something that had literally just popped into her mind -- and his reaction is instantaneous. 

He arches his back, jaw dropping in an audacious moan like he can hardly believe what’s happening. Pride floods her, blood rushing to her groin as she slides her breasts up and down, his cock nestled between them. She feels as flushed as he looks, sweat and spit shining on the pale mounds of her tits. Ashe twitches again, his hips jerking in a mess of a staccato. His chest swells with a hold of his breath. 

“Let go, Ashe,” she urges him. “Come for me.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With a jolt of his pelvis, Ashe screams into his orgasm, and Byleth has enough of a mind to smother his dick so that only her chest is covered in his cum. He shudders, bucking his hips as he rides it out, and she squeezes him, the pulse of his cock right next to her immobile heart. It’s a peculiar feeling, one that makes her clit tingle. She’d almost forgotten how much she aches to be touched herself.

“S-Sorry,” he starts, “I hope I didn’t make too much of a mess.” 

“No need to apologize,” she assures him. “Sex is messy. That’s why I made sure we had a wash bin.” 

He laughs into a sigh, deep and steady for the first time in what must have been an hour. Maybe more. She wonders how long they’ve actually been at this -- it feels like it’s passed in the blink of an eye. 

“How do you feel?” she asks.

He smiles, throat bobbing with a hard swallow as he looks her over, dripping in his cum and her own sweat. “Like I want to get my hands on you.”

With warmth bubbling in her gut, Byleth flashes a grin. “Let’s get you out of this contraption, then.” 

She saves the collar for last. The knots are loosened around his feet first, then his hands -- in which, with their restored freedom, he uses to grab her face, pulling her in for a needy kiss. He sucks at her bottom lip, his thumbs gracing her cheeks as she continues freeing his limbs. When her hands find his throat, he clutches them, shaking his head. 

“I’d like to keep this on a little longer, if you don’t mind.” He smiles, anything but innocent. Byleth lifts a brow.

“Oh? What for?” 

Her answer comes in another kiss, more fervent and eager than the last. “I’ll show you. But let’s wash that mess off of you first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sweated through writing so much of this tbh


	14. fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're about to put the finishing touches on this war, but as they reach the end, something else is only just beginning.

_Sex is quite messy_, Ashe chuckles to himself as he soaks the washrag in the bin. Byleth is still naked, breasts glistening and wet from his cleanup, and he’s still got his damn coat on -- and his boots. She lounges on her bed, watching him hurry to unlace and kick off his shoes. 

“Come here,” she beckons him, and faithfully, he stumbles to her. Shrugging his jacket to the floor, pants still unbuttoned. 

Ashe almost leaps onto the bed. Stunning himself with his eagerness, he grabs at her legs and she gasps, breathy and high as her knees hook onto his shoulders. Flushed in the neck, he stares between her thighs, at her cropped, dark hair and shining skin. She’s so very wet. The burning in his cheeks flares hotter. 

Byleth breathes out a soft giggle. “Ashe...” Her arms stretch toward him, but she can’t reach from this angle. “You’re staring like you’ve never seen it before.”

“S-Sorry,” he apologizes. 

“It’s alright,” she says quietly, if a bit strained. She’s breathing harder. “Just…”

Ashe swallows thickly. Smoothing his hands up her thighs. Gloves are still on, too. _They’re already dirty_, he thinks. 

_I want to be dirty_. 

He brushes over the seam of her folds and watches her eyes widen. She’s so warm. Ashe presses his thumb against the head of her clit, and a shock rocks through her as her eyes fall shut. She arches into his touch, and it’s then he starts moving, drawing circles around the bundle of nerves. He spreads her wetness around, watching it glisten on her skin. The muscles in her abs flex with her hastened breathing. He slides his forefinger inside of her and Byleth groans. 

Slowly, he curls it within her walls, and she makes the most mouth-watering noise of contentment. She’s started to tremble, a pulsing in her groin squeezing around him as her body starts to beg for more. He slides in another finger, pumping her quicker, his heart racing when she sighs his name.

“Ashe, Ashe…”

He chews his lip, a hollow feeling eating at him in the pit of his belly as he draws his fingers in and out, in and out. The sloppy noises of her fluids smack against her skin and the leather of his gloves. He’s sweating, aching. He slides his digits out of her. 

“Ashe,” she says again, barely a whisper. He looks longingly at her, eyes hazy as he licks his lips. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he pulls his glove off with his teeth. One finger at a time. Byleth is quivering. 

“Oh, Ashe,” she moans, the smallest smile playing on her face. “Oh, _that’s_…”

He flicks the glove off, paying no mind to where it lands. On the edge of the bed, maybe, or perhaps the floor. The other one would follow quickly. His palms are so sweaty, so hot as they find her thighs again. He gives her one more look, swimming in the glow of her desperate eyes before dipping his head down.

Byleth tastes _so_ good. The first stroke of his tongue is long and feather-light, and it makes her writhe in his grasp. His blunt fingertips dig into the curves where her thighs meet her ass. He holds her steady, her hips up in the air as he laps at her cunt, driving his tongue in and out of her entrance in a carefully measured rhythm. She’s getting even wetter.

Ashe rolls his tongue upward, flattening it against her clit before swirling it in circles, not too quickly, not too slowly, listening for what makes her moan louder. Of all his talents, he’s glad to count this among them, smiling into her folds as he draws shapes against her skin. Byleth twitches, grabbing fistfuls of the duvet and groaning -- she’s gushing into his mouth. He wants to drink every drop of her. 

Humming nonsense, the vibrations of his voice thrum against her flesh. Byleth twitches -- an attempt to thrust into his face. He sucks at her clit, making a gratuitous smacking sound before laying her flat against the bed. 

“Ashe?” 

He glances up at her, flashing a smile before burying his face in her cunt again. In an instant, Byleth rocks her hips into him, thrusting into his mouth as he works his tongue more rigorously. The wet of her coats his nose, his chin -- he’s tasting much of his own salivation along with it. He calms his tongue to press it flat once more, tasting the beat of her pulse there. It’s quickened, dancing in his mouth and making it water. He sucks at her again, bringing up his fingers to drive into her as he drinks. The whole of her body jerks into his movements.

“Ashe, Ashe,” she yelps his name like it’s the only thing she knows and his chest swells almost uncomfortably. Heartily, he laps at her, curling and pumping his fingers in a measured staccato. Consistent, quick, rhythmic. Her fluids flood his mouth and he moans. He could drown like this and die happy. 

With another violent jerk of her hips, Byleth cums, spilling onto his tongue and fingers. Ashe slows his stroking, dancing along the beat of her clit as he carefully draws out his fingers, applying just the slightest pressure. She makes some request -- _hold, right there, gently_ \-- and he presses open-mouthed kisses to the inner of her thighs. The pulse in her clit calms, and he rubs his thumb there until he can’t feel it any longer, until her breathing quiets. He lifts his head to meet her with a bashful smile. 

“Was that alright?” he asks, playfully.

“Better than,” she assures him, her breasts bouncing with her laugh. Ashe kisses her there, too, magicking even more laughter out of her. “You’re too modest.” 

“A knight must have humility,” he jokes with her, tracing his tongue over her nipple. 

“That may be true,” she agrees, “but I do like a display of confidence now and again.”

“My talents speak for themselves, don’t you think?” he teases, crawling on top of her. He pushes his half-hard cock against her lower belly. Byleth bites her lip. 

“Mmm, they do indeed.” 

Ashe breathes into a laugh, bowing his head to kiss the height of her collarbone. He can’t help himself. His fingers float downward, moving to trace over her naked entrance again. She pushes up into him, encouraging. Fingers reaching to tug his untidy hair. 

“Ashe,” she sighs. He slips his forefinger past her folds -- she’s getting wet again. _Thump-thump_, goes his heart. He kisses her neck, tasting the sweat in the hollow of her throat. He can feel her swallow hard. 

“You want more, don't you?” he mutters. 

“I do,” she purrs, rocking into him. “Use your fingers, this time.” 

“Fingers?” Ashe giggles softly, kissing her jaw and the shell of her ear. He smiles, whispering. “I only need one.”

***

Inside Fort Merceus, Claude reveals the last card up his sleeve. The aid of the Almyran army was one of the last things Ashe would have expected, but their strength is a welcome comfort. The fabled Nader, in the flesh, takes the Empire’s forces from the north, while the professor’s faction moves in from the southern entrance. She shouts a specific order to stay away when he gets too near the eastern ballista -- it’s not until after Raphael has knocked him flat that he finds out Caspar was there. He’d come too close to Ignatz, and there was no way their brawler wasn’t going to do something about that.

The sniper begs him not to look at the spray of blood on the pavement. Ashe feels that he should. 

The Death Knight is brought to his knees. While he’s sure it would have brought Flayn great relief, he does not fall, but instead lures them outside the fortress walls. 

“The time is ripe,” he says, blazing eyes turned heavenward. Ashe would follow the professor’s gaze, high above the walls -- what looks like a shooting star is falling fast in their direction. The troops scramble to escape what’s sure to be a devastating explosion. In a blinding flash of white, Fort Merceus is completely leveled. 

The Imperial army disappears. 

Ashe is shaken to his core.

***

Night falls just before they reach Bergliez territory. A messenger tells them the Count has been made aware of the incident and that he’s surrendered himself and his men, only to be executed for treachery. Ashe wonders if anyone told him about Caspar before he fell.

“Did Lindhart make it?” he asks Byleth. They’re keeping watch together, poking at the bonfire as everyone makes to retire, shuffling food and supplies and soothing the horses. She shakes her head.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him before it hit.” 

Ashe scoots closer to her, shedding his coat to drape it around her shoulders. Her face is still, but she leans against him. Comforted. 

“To think the Imperial army could do such a thing..." Ashe muses, distressed. She shifts, looks into the fire instead of at him.

“No,” she says firmly. “Edelgard wouldn’t...it doesn’t make sense.” 

"But if not the Empire, then...who?" he asks her, leaning in closer, talking quieter.

“Who,” she echoes, an airiness in her voice. She sounds so tired. “We must be missing something.”

Ashe tilts his head, curious. “Missing what?”

“Javelins of light,” she says, narrowing her eyes. She’s fixated on the fire as if the answers are flickering in the flames. “Hiding in plain sight.”

Brows wound together, Ashe frowns, reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, but she doesn’t squeeze back. Just stares. 

“Byleth, you’re scaring me a little,” he tells her, willing her to look at him. She doesn’t, but she smiles weakly, for a moment.

“I’m sorry. I just…” 

A beat of quiet. The crackles and pops of the fire are piercing in the stillness of the night around them. Everything beyond the flame is pitch dark, all the trees cloaked in shadows. Ashe opens his mouth to ask her something, but before he can take another breath, she finally looks back at him. 

“I think Rhea knows.” 

Ashe blinks. “Knows -- what?” 

“Everything,” she says cryptically. Her face is incredibly still. “When we reach Enbarr...I need to find her.” 

“Wait, what do you mean?” he asks, a rush of panic flooding through him. He doesn’t understand why, but something about the emptiness in her eyes makes his anxiety spike. There’s something she’s not telling him. “Everything about what?”

“The real reason we’re fighting this war,” she says. “Why it all started.” 

Ashe reaches for her, taking her chin in hand as she reluctantly looks up into his eyes. There’s something beyond a tiredness in her expression, a void where a feeling should be. A different look than the blank stare he’s used to. Even when she doesn’t emote, there’s still a light in her eyes, a glimmer now absent. It frightens him the tiniest bit. 

His mind races. A whirlwind of questions tornado about his head, and she can answer none of them. 

“You should rest,” he says. She wordlessly agrees, following him to his tent. 

They don’t get much sleep, just hold each other through the night.

***

The troops reconvene at Myrddin. Claude’s stunt with the Almyran army is called into question, and he and Lorenz get into a not-so-heated debate. Maybe it’s just that Ashe is acutely attuned to other’s emotions, or that his paranoia makes him hyper-aware of when someone’s skirting around the truth, but he strongly feels that Claude has a secret. Something he’s not quite ready to share with everyone else, not even with Byleth. He takes a day to struggle with that -- but if Byleth trusts him, so does he. Whether or not it’s the healthiest or wisest decision, he’s too far in this war to care (too in love to care).

Claude is all talk, anyway. Always making something sound shadier than it actually is. Whatever he’s hiding, Ashe is sure the reveal will be completely underwhelming, whenever it comes. What could he possibly say that would surprise anybody -- that his real name isn’t Claude? That he’s from Almyra? Ashe laughs to himself as they reach the monastery again. Now that would be something. A wonderful something. 

Maybe then, Fodlan would actually change for the better. 

Everyone’s heard about the javelins of light by the time they return to base. They spend much of their time attempting to calm the panic as well as make preparations for the city siege. Merchants have run scared, migrating further north or taking up shelter in the Oghma Mountains. The marketplace is quieter than it’s been since the restoration of the monastery, but at least Anna’s still here. Ashe doesn’t even haggle with her when he picks up trinkets from the not-so secret shop. She hasn’t smiled so much in ages. 

She slips something extra into his bag as they're trading goodbyes. "For when your girlfriend is feeling better," she says with a wink. How she can tell, Ashe can't begin to guess -- but he's grateful for the bundle anyway. He's not sure when they'll put it to use, but he savors the flowery scent all the same.

***

They pitch tents in the outskirts of the capitol at night, and Ashe crawls into her tent first thing the following morning. She’s curled up in the corner, still fairly undressed, wrapped in a quilt he recognizes from Caspar’s dorm room. Smells like old cologne and musk and cat hair when he gets closer to her. Her eyes are dry. She hasn’t been crying, but her face is sunken enough to make it seem so. His heart wrenches.

“I’m worried about you,” he tells her. “You’ve been strange since the fortress fell.” 

Byleth hugs the quilt tighter around her shoulders, her chin resting on top of her knees. Ashe cuddles up to her, hands on her back. He kisses the top of her head. 

“Is it me?” He asks first, shamefully. It’s a selfish thing, immature, but she’s quick to shake her head. 

“No.” She graces him with a small smile. It falters, vanishing quickly as it comes. “I just keep thinking of Rhea.” 

“I didn’t realize you cared so much for her.” He hopes it doesn’t sting, the way he carelessly spits the words. She makes some sort of face he can’t read. 

“It’s hard to explain,” she says. “It feels like....I can’t _not_ care. Like there’s something connecting us.”

Ashe lifts his brows. “A connection? Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and he believes her. He’s not jealous, or at least, he doesn’t think he is -- it doesn’t feel as though she’s referring to something like romance. An intimacy of a different sort. But what? 

“I wish I could help you understand,” she tells him, transparently. “But even I won’t, not until…” 

Ashe grimaces, knots swelling in his throat as he takes her in his arms, the heady musk of Caspar’s old blanket fogging his head. She really went to his old room before they packed up for the trail just to take it with her. He wonders if there’s anything of Linhardt’s in her satchel right now, one of his old potion bottles or notebooks. He can faintly recall seeing odd belongings here and there in her quarters, mismatched trinkets that he hadn’t seen before they started lunging into battle. Mementos, reminders. 

For those so staunchly against bloodshed, they’ve certainly killed a lot of their friends. The sacrifice for victory -- everything at a cost. Much too high a cost. Byleth won’t let herself forget.

He wonders then, too, what she’ll keep of Edelgard’s.

“I don’t want to kill her,” she echoes him, their conversation in bed weeks ago.

“She won’t yield,” Ashe reminds her, dolefully. “If you want to find Rhea...Byleth, we have to.” 

“What if she’s already dead?” she asks, hopelessly. “Then it would have been for nothing.”

“You and Claude already decided if we’re going to take that risk.” 

“I know,” she breathes. “I just want to know what we’re really fighting for. Who’s to blame for all this strife...Who I really am.”

Ashe startles, moving to meet her face. “What do you mean? You’re -- Byleth. You’re our general, our professor…”

Bare of any emotion, her taut face pales. There’s no lift in her lips or brow, but her voice trembles when she speaks. 

“Ashe, when my father died, Claude read his diary.”

The air feels thinner; a sharpness in his lungs pinches his next inhale. “He...what?”

“He read it, and there’s things my father talks about that don’t make sense,” she starts, awkward. Her jaw tenses, breath quickening as Ashe’s blood begins to race.

“What do you mean?” 

The moment Byleth opens her mouth again, the seam of the tent rips open -- a panicked soldier kneels in a salute.

“Professor! I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a visitor!” 

“Who?” she asks, already getting to her feet. 

“I’m not sure, but he says he has information for you.”

Ashe would follow her to the edge of their camp, to the meadow lush with wildflowers and shrubbery where they’d done their fishing the evening before. The messenger darts back to the tents, and it seems Claude is already waiting there, a familiar, burly figure next to him, cloaked in a Duscur bear’s fur.

“Dedue…”

The late prince’s right hand turns slowly to them, looking down his nose at Ashe and the professor. A rolled up parchment is clenched tight in his left fist. 

“Professor. Claude." It's hardly a greeting. He fixates on Ashe as he makes it. “Ashe…”

“Dedue, you’re alive!” he chirps, warmth spreading in his cheeks. “I’m so glad to see you!”

He moves to open his arms to him, to reach out for an embrace, but Byleth inches a careful few footsteps closer to him, protectively. Her arms spread to bar him from getting too close. Reflexively, he obeys her wordless command, heart sinking when he glances back up at him. Dedue folds his hands behind his back, body rigid and tense as he averts his eyes. He looks only to Claude, who then breaks the silence.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes,” he answers curtly. “For now.”

“Where have you been?” Claude sounds just as dumbfounded as he feels.

“In Enbarr. I came here shortly after the battle at Gronder Field, studying the construction of the palace in secret,” he replies. “The people of Abyss have been here as well, coming back and forth to aid in my research.” 

“Abyss? You mean Yuri was here, too?” Claude balks at him.

“Yes. He assisted me with this,” Dedue tells him, and presents him with the small scroll of parchment.

“What is this?”

“A detailed markup of all the passages and tunnels inside and under the palace,” he explains. “If Rhea is alive, it’s likely she’s in one of those rooms.”

“Does this mean you’re coming with us?” Claude asks, hopefully. “We could use a man of your strength, and you look like you could use some company.”

“No,” he says flatly, returning his hands behind his back. “We fight for different objectives.”

Claude frowns. “What do you mean? You seek to end this war, don’t you?”

“I’ve only come here to kill Edelgard. If you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to kill you too.” 

“You’ve already tried that, and failed,” Ashe pipes up. Claude and Byleth’s head snap so hard in his direction he’s sure he heard a crack -- but Dedue doesn’t even flinch, just slowly turns his head to look him hard in the eyes. 

“_You_ failed His Highness,” he says plainly, as if it even matters -- as if it were even true. “I refuse to do the same.” 

“Dedue...he’s gone,” he tells him uselessly, brows drawn together in a tight knit. “You’re fighting for a memory.” 

“How dare you insult the King,” he hisses, and Ashe dares to step his feet forward. Byleth latches onto his arm in an instant, a warning he barely heeds as he feels his blood boiling.

“How could you insult _yourself_? You cling to revenge when you could be so much more, Dedue!” 

“Ashe, calm down,” Claude asks of him, more as a friend than a commander. Dedue remains immobile.

“Be more than what? For whom?” he bites back, keeping his voice even although his eyes are fiery. “Everyone I’ve ever loved is dead. There’s nothing left for me.”

In his heart, he knows it’s futile to ask, but while he’s still bold, he asks him anyway: “What about me?” 

The answer stings no less when it comes just as he expects it to. “What _about_ you, Ashe? You left us.”

“That’s unfair.”

“It’s not about what’s fair, it’s about what matters,” Dedue says, hardly making any sense at all. 

“I don’t matter to you at all?” he presses on, and Claude moves in closer to him and Byleth, at the ready to drag him away if need be. They could go ahead and do so, Ashe knows his answer already.

“I thought I proved that at Gronder,” he says coldly. Byleth mutters something that sounds like _okay, that’s enough, go back to your tent_, but he can’t help himself. The words just spill out.

“So you really don’t care?” 

“I haven’t cared about you since the day you turned your back on him,” he says, unblinking, and then looks to Claude. “I’ve done what I came here to do. I wish you luck. Farewell.” 

The steel of his weathered breastplate grinds against the juncture where it meets his pauldrons as he turns away, long legs carrying him off into the thick of greenery. Neither Claude nor Byleth make a move to go after him. A lost cause. The parchment wrinkles in Claude’s wrenched clutch. The former professor looks not in the distance, but back at him, worry creasing her brow.

“Ashe,” she says. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he tells her, honestly. “I’m angry.”

***

He would take that anger past the gates of Enbarr. That anger would flare when they would learn the civilians hadn’t been evacuated. 

“We need to help them,” he tells Byleth. “They haven’t done anything wrong.” 

He doesn’t need to beg for permission -- he hardly even needs to ask for it. She gives the order for him to lead a small faction through town to help innocents find refuge. Mariiane and Leonie and Flayn accompany him while the rest of them clear a path for the palace. Among the people they rescue, a small boy with two little siblings looks up at him with the same eyes he’s seen in the mirror not so long ago. He forgets his name just as soon as he tells him, but the frightened look on his face will burn behind his eyelids well into the night. 

Dusk falls, and Hubert von Vestra along with it. Yuri Leclerc leads them through the tunnels to the palace. Dedue takes them to the throne room and vanishes down a flight of stairs.

It takes the strength of both Byleth and Claude to subdue Edelgard. The Emperor’s death is swift, merciful, and what Ashe can only hope is relatively painless. The eerie magicians in masks scuttle and whisper and magick away as Byleth carries her body to the gates. The city surrenders. Enbarr is theirs. Fodlan is theirs. 

To the people, it looks like the end of the war -- 

“Ashe,” Seteth approaches him. “I have something to ask of you.” 

He looks down at the parchment in his hand -- the map of the palace. Dedue and Yuri marked every point of interest. He gestures to the black circle etched under the blueprint of the throne room. 

“I think we’ve found the room Rhea’s been kept in,” he starts, “but we’ll need someone with a certain finesse of lock-touching to open it…” 

Ashe follows him behind a crimson tarp, watches him press his palm against a peculiar-looking stone in the wall. A glowing light beams from behind it, and suddenly the stones are shifting, revealing a hole large enough to pass through. 

The tunnel is short. Byleth and Claude are already waiting at the end of it, standing before an iron door that looks to be older than any structure he’s seen in the city. The padlock looks simple enough for a hand as practiced as his. 

“Can you open it?” Seteth asks him, voice shaking with fear and hope and longing. 

“Of course he can,” Byleth says before Ashe even takes a breath. She doesn’t move, but the slight inclination of her head is enough to assure him. He nods back at her and kneels in front of the barricade. With a prod of a hairpin and a minute of finagling, his deft fingers twist open the lock, and the door creaks open with a deafening screech. 

Behind him, Seteth gasps.

“Rhea,” Byleth breathes, barely audible over the echo of the advisor’s heavy footfalls. 

The Archbishop is alive. 

\-- for them, the real war is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUARANTINE am i right ladies
> 
> hoping to have this finished before the game's 1 year anniversary -- can you believe i've played this game like 8 times since last july. ahahhaa,,,two more chapters let's goooo


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